THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


By  Gunnar  Gunnarsson 

A  NOVEL  of  Iceland  of  today 
that  moves  against  a  back- 
ground of  sombre  and  foreboding 
beauty  with  a  rapidity  of  action 
and  an  unusual  amount  of  sus- 
pense. Translated  from  the  Dan- 


"""HIS  novel,  published  originally  in 
-I  Denmark  in  four  volumes,  is  generally 
regarded  as  the  author's  most  important 
work  to  date.  It  deals  with  the  adventures 
of  three  generations:  Orlygur  the  Rich,  a 
survivor  of  the  age  of  heroic  sagas;  Ormaar 
who  courts  success  only  to  find  it  dross; 
Guest  the  repentant  sinner,  a  character  akin 
perhaps  to  the  Wandering  Jew;  and  finally 
Orlygur  the  second  a  tempestuous  adventure- 
some youth.  Gunnarsson  succeeds  conspic^ 
uously  in  weaving  into  his  chapters  some 
ot  the  beauty  and  magic  of  his  native  land, 
lovely  and  forbidding  by  turns,  and  the 
charm  and  simplicity  of  its  people. 


GUNNAR  OUNNARSSOK 

born  in  1889  in  Iceland,  learned  Danish 
in  order  to  secure  a  wider  audience. 
Just  what  this  means  is  realized  when 
it  is  remembered  that  Icelandic  «s  as 
different  from  Danish  as  Latin  is  from 
French.  Icelandic — the  ancient  language 
of  Scandinavia— is  learned  by  very  few 
Danes,  and  Icelanders  -find  difficulty  ia 
speaking  the  gutteral  Danish.  Gunnars- 
son's  fear,  therefore,  is  comparable  to 
that  of  Joseph  Conrad— the  more  so 
because  Gunnarsson  is  now  one  of  the 
most  widely  read  authors  of  Denmark 
i-self.  He  is  the  author  of  "The  Sawn 
Brothers",  published  by  Mr.  Knopf  last- 
year. 


GUEST  THE 
ONE-EYED 


BY    THE  SAME   AUTHOR 


A  TALE  of  the  early  days  of  Iceland  by 
the  most  noted  of  living  Icelandic  novel- 
ists. "To  read  it  is  like  being  struck  in 
the  face  on  a  sultry  day  with  a  breeze 
fresh  from  the  glaciated  mountains  of  the 
Viking  North."  — The  Bookman. 

"Gunnarsson  has  made  his  characters  so 
genuine,  so  red-blooded  and  so  masculine 
that  they  stand  out  like  living  men." 

— News-Tribune,  Detroit. 

NEW  YORK:  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


GUEST 
THE  ONE-EYED 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  DANISH  OF 

GUNNAR    GUNNARSSON 

BY  W.  W.  WORSTER 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  -  A  •  KNOPF 

1922 


COPYRIGHT.  1015,  BY  GUNNAR  GUNNARSSON 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


{.Original  title:  A.T  BOBQSI^EGTKNS  HISTORIE] 


Set  up  and  printed  by  the  Vati- Ballon  Co.,  Binphamton,  2f.  T. 
Paper  furnished  by   W.   F.  Etherington  A   Co.,   New   York,   N.   T. 
Bound  by  the  H.  Wolff  Estate,  New  York,  N.  T. 


UANUFACTURKD      IN      THE      UNITED      STATES      O*      AMXBIOA 


College 
Library 


?T 

CONTENTS          8115 


BOOK  I 

0RMARR    0RLYQSSON  9 

BOOK  II 
THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  107 

BOOK  III 
GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  189 

BOOK  IV 

THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  273 


BOOK  I 
ORMARR  0RLYGSSON 


CHAPTER  I 

SNOW,  snow,  snow! 
Below   and   above — here,   there,   and   everywhere! 
Up   to   his  knees   in   snow,    Pall  a   Seyru  struggled 
across  the  wind-swept  heights.     The  snow  whirled  down  in 
great  downy  flakes,  making  it  impossible  to  see  more  than 
a  few  yards  ahead.     Stooping,  with  heavy,  weary  steps,  he 
tramped  on,  an  empty  sack  slung  across  his  shoulders. 

He  had  come  from  the  trading  station,  and  was  on  his 
way  home  to  his  own  hut  in  the  mountains ;  the  store-keeper 
had  refused  to  grant  him  further  credit,  and  in  consequence, 
he  had  chosen  to  return  by  this  lonely  track  across  the  hills, 
where  he  was  sure  of  meeting  no  one  on  his  way.  It  was 
hard  to  come  home  at  Christmas-time  with  empty  hands  to 
empty  pots  and  hungry  mouths. 

His  only  comfort  was  the  snow.  It  fell  so  thickly  as  to 
shut  out  all  around,  and  seemed  to  numb  even  the  poor 
peasant's  despair  within  the  dismal  prison  of  his  mind. 

Now  and  again  he  heard  a  sound — the  whir  and  cackle  of 
ptarmigan  flying  overhead. 

Suddenly  a  gust  of  wind  sent  the  snow  flying  over  the 
ground.  Another — and  then  gust  followed  gust,  growing 
at  last  to  a  veritable  hurricane,  that  swept  the  very  snow- 
clouds  from  the  sky.  And  as  if  by  magic,  a  vast  plain  of 
snow  lay  open  to  his  eyes. 

All  Hofsf jordur  was  suddenly  visible.  Pall  turned,  and 
saw  the  last  of  the  clouds  sweep  down  into  the  dark  blue- 
green  of  the  sea.  To  the  south-east,  the  peaks  of  the  Hof 

9 


10  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Mountains  rose  out  of  the  water,  and  over  the  eastern 
landscape  towered  a  long  range  of  rocky  mountains  that 
gradually  merged  into  the  great  south-western  plateau. 
His  eye  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  vicarage  farm  of  Hof — 
a  few  straggling  buildings  clinging  to  the  mountain-side, 
among  which  the  black  church  itself  loomed  out,  right  at 
the  mouth  of  the  fjord.  The  houses  of  the  trading  station 
he  could  not  see;  they  lay  beyond,  on  the  northern  shore 
of  the  fjord,  safely  sheltered  behind  the  rocky  walls  of  the 
islets  that  offered  such  fine  harbourage — to  any  ship  that 
managed  to  reach  so  far. 

The  parish  itself  lay  between  him  and  the  Hof  Mountains. 
A  valley  two  miles  farther  up  was  divided  into  two  narrow 
dales  by  the  Borgasfjall,  a  steep  and  rocky  height.  The 
rivulets  from  the  two  valleys — now  but  streaks  of  smooth 
ice — met  lower  down,  making  part  of  the  valley  into  a  pen- 
insula. The  southern  stream  was  named  Hofsa,  and  its 
valley  Hofsardalur;  the  northernmost  Borgara,  and  its  val- 
ley Borgardalur;  but  the  rivulets,  from  their  confluence  to 
the  outflow  into  Hofsfjordur,  still  went  by  the  name  of 
Borgara,  and  the  broad  valley  was  called  Borgardalur. 

To  the  north,  on  the  farther  side  of  a  narrow  valley, 
likewise  belonging  to  the  parish,  were  the  faint  outlines  of 
broad,  slowly  rising  hills — the  Dark  Mountains.  The  ridge 
where  Pall  now  stood  was  Borgarhals,  and  ran  for  a  long 
way  between  Borgardalur  and  Nordurdalen,  in  the  heart  of 
the  mountains,  leading  to  the  little  glen  where  his  cottage 
lay,  close  to  a  brook,  and  not  far  from  the  lake.  There 
were  trout  in  the  water  there,  to  be  taken  by  net  in  summer, 
and  in  winter  by  fishing  with  lines  through  holes  in  the  ice. 
Wild  geese,  swans,  and  ducks  were  there  in  plenty,  from 
early  spring  to  late  autumn. 

But  Pall's  thoughts  had  wandered  far  from  all  this, 
settling,  as  did  his  glance,  on  a  row  of  stately  gables  that 
rose  above  a  low  hill  in  the  centre  of  the  peninsula,  formed 
by  the  waters  of  Borgara  and  Hofsa. 

From  three   of  the  chimneys   a  kindly  smoke   ascended. 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  11 

The  storm  had  abated,  and  folk  were  beginning  to  move 
about  here  and  there  among  the  outbuildings  round  the 
large  walled  farmyard.  Already  flocks  of  sheep  were  on 
their  way  to  the  winter  pasture  at  the  foot  of  the  hills, 
where  some  dwarfed  growth  was  still  to  be  found. 

This  was  Borg,  the  home  of  0rlygur  the  Rich,  as  he 
was  called.  It  was  by  no  means  uncommon  for  folk  to 
speak  of  him  as  "the  King,"  for  he  ruled  over  scores  of 
servants,  and  owned  hundreds  of  cattle  and  horses  and 
thousands  of  sheep. 

Suddenly  Pall's  cheeks  flushed  with  a  happy  thought. 
It  had  crossed  his  mind  that  he  might  call  at  Borg.  All 
knew  that  0rlygur  the  Rich  never  sent  a  poor  man  empty 
away.  But  then  he  realized  that  today  was  not  the  first 
time  the  thought  had  come  to  him.  No,  better  to  give  it 
up;  he  had  turned  for  help  to  Borg  too  many  times  before; 
he  could  not  well  ask  again. 

With  bowed  head,  and  face  grey  as  before,  he  dragged 
himself  along  the  almost  impassable  track ;  he  was  exhausted ; 
his  limbs  seemed  heavy  as  if  in  chains. 

From  early  morning  to  about  ten  o'clock,  while  the  storm 
raged,  the  farm  hands  and  servants  of  Borg  gathered  in 
the  women's  hall  upstairs.  The  men  had  come  from  their 
quarters,  and  sat  about  on  the  beds  waiting  for  the  storm 
to  abate  before  starting  out  to  their  work.  The  cowman 
alone  was  forced  to  .brave  the  elements  and  tend  his  cattle. 

0rlygur  had  opened  the  door  to  his  own  room.  He  sat 
with  his  two-year-old  son  Ketill  on  his  knees,  and  talked 
quietly  with  his  men,  exchanging  views,  or  giving  them 
advice  about  the  work  of  the  place.  He  always  treated 
them  as  his  equals.  The  men  sat  with  their  breakfast-plates 
on  their  knees,  eating  as  they  talked.  Some  of  the  women- 
folk went  to  and  fro  with  food  or  heavy  outdoor  clothing; 
others  were  darning  socks  or  mending  shoes. 

Ormarr,  who  was  nearing  his  fourteenth  year,  sat  in  his 
father's  room,  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  facing  0rlysrur.  It 
was  in  his  mind  that  things  were  beginning  to  be  like  they 


12  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

had  been  before  his  mother's  death,  two  years  ago.  He  sat 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  swinging  his  legs  by  way  of 
accompaniment  to  his  thoughts. 

Never  before  had  he  missed  his  mother  so  sorely  as  this 
morning,  when  every  one  else  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her; 
never  before  had  he  felt  her  loss  so  keenly.  He  sighed, 
checked  the  swinging  of  his  legs,  and  sat  motionless  for  a 
while.  Tears  rose  to  his  eyes.  He  felt  he  must  go  out,  or 
he  would  be  crying  openly  in  a  minute,  and  disturb  the 
comfort  of  the  rest.  For  a  moment  he  sat  pondering  where 
to  go,  then  he  remembered  that  the  cowman  would  by  now 
have  finished  work  in  the  shed,  and  taking  down  an  old 
violin  from  a  rack,  he  left  the  room. 

Reaching  the  cowshed,  he  sat  down  in  his.  accustomed 
place,  on  a  board  between  two  empty  chests,  and  com- 
menced tuning  his  instrument.  It  was  an  old  thing  that 
had  been  in  the  family  for  generations,  but  no  one  could 
remember  having  heard  it  played.  Then,  seven  years  be- 
fore, Ormarr  had  been  taught  the  rudiments  of  music  by  a 
wandering  fiddler,  an  adventurous  soul,  who  tramped  the 
country  with  his  fiddle  slung  over  his  shoulder  in  a  calf- 
skin bag.  Since  then,  Ormarr  had  given  all  his  spare  time 
to  the  music. 

His  father  had  marked  with  grief  how  this  one  interest 
had  gradually  swallowed  up  all  else;  the  boy  cared  nothing 
for  the  management  of  the  estate,  or  indeed  for  any  other 
work.  Possibly  it  was  this  which  had  led  0rlygur,  in  spite 
of  the  doctor's  advice,  to  wish  for  another  son.  And  his 
wife  had  sacrificed  her  life  in  giving  him  what  he  wished. 

Hard  and  self-willed  as  he  was  in  many  ways,  0rlygur 
had  yet  a  profound  belief  in  the  right  of  every  human  be- 
ing to  determine  his  own  life,  to  follow  his  own  nature  and 
develop  his  gifts  as  long  as  it  involved  no  actual  harm  to 
others.  And  he  made  no  attempt  to  coerce  the  boy;  Ormarr 
had  his  way. 

About   ten  o'clock,   when   the  snow  had  ceased,   Ormarr 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  13 

slung  his  gun  across  his  shoulder  and  walked  off  toward 
Borgarhals  to  shoot  ptarmigan. 

On  the  way,  he  met  Einar  a  Gili,  a  troublesome  fellow, 
who,  in  defiance  of  the  general  feeling,  had  so  little  respect 
for  the  uncrowned  king  of  Borg  that  he  had  several  times 
thrashed  his  son  Ormarr  without  the  slightest  provocation. 
It  was  the  more  unpardonable,  since  Einar  was  about  ten 
years  older,  and  strong  as  a  giant.  And  now,  at  sight  of 
him,  Ormarr 's  fingers  fumbled  in  passionate  helplessness  at 
the  trigger  of  his  gun. 

Einar  hailed  him,  to  all  appearance  innocent  as  could 
be.  "Hey,  Ormarr,  out  shooting?  Let's  go  together?" 

Ormarr  had  no  desire  to  go  out  shooting  with  Einar, 
but  was  curious  to  know  why  the  other  had  suggested  it. 

"Then  we  can  see  who's  the  best  shot." 

This  was  irresistible.  Einar  was  a  proverbially  bad  shot 
with  a  gun,  and  Ormarr  knew  it.  He  made  no»protest,  and 
they  went  on  together. 

Every  time  he  fired,  Ormarr  brought  down  two  or  three 
birds.  Einar  got  at  the  most  one  bird  at  a  shot,  and  often 
sent  the  birds  fluttering  away  with  broken  wings. 

Nevertheless,  Einar  picked  up  all  the  birds  that  fell,  and 
stuffed  them  into  his  own  bag.  Ormarr  demanded  his  share. 

"Oh,  you've  no  bag,  and  there's  no  sense  wasting  time 
tying  your  birds  together  at  every  shot.  "Wait  till  we've 
done." 

Ormarr  had  his  suspicions,  but  said  nothing. 

After  a  while  they  came  to  a  good-sized  rock,  with  two 
paths  round.  Ormarr  knew  that  the  path!  to  the  south 
was  the  longer. 

"Let's  go  round  and  meet  on  the  other  side.  I'll  go 
this  way,"  he  said,  taking  the  northern  path.  And  Einar 
agreed. 

When  they  met,  neither  had  any  more  birds  to  show. 

"But  you  fired,  I  heard  you,"  said  Einar. 

"I  missed,"-  said  Ormarr  shortly.  Einar  laughed,  but 
he  took  no  notice. 


14  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"Look,  there's  one  sitting  on  that  rock,"  said  Ormarr 
suddenly,  pointing  to  a  boulder  some  hundred  yards  away. 
" I'll  take  him.'7 

"No    hurry,"    said    Einar;    "I'll   bag    that    one   myself. 
We  needn't  go  on  any  longer — I'm  going  home  now." 
•     "How  many  have  we  got?" 

"Oh,  twenty." 

"Good,  then  give  me  mine." 

"Ah,  yes — next  time  we  meet!  I'm  off.  My  love  to  the 
cattle  at  home." 

Somewhat  to  his  disappointment,  Ormarr  did  not  seem 
to  be  greatly  annoyed,  but  merely  walked  off,  calling  quietly 
over  his  shoulder:  "Mind  you  don't  miss  that  bird,  Mr. 
Clever-with-your-gun. ' ' 

Einar  turned  round  angrily.  "Don't  shout  like  that — 
you'll  scare  it  away.  That's  my  twenty-first." 

"All  right.  It's  too  frightened  of  you  to  move.  Go  and 
see." 

Einar  took  careful  aim — his  hand  shook  a  little,  but  only 
because  he  was  inwardly  chuckling  over  the  trick  he  had 
played  Ormarr,  and  the  thought  of  telling  what  he  had  done. 
Though,  indeed,  he  might  get  little  credit  for  it  all;  people 
were  rather  apt  to  side  with  the  lordly  folk  from  Borg. 
Still,  it  was  good  to  have  fooled  that  brat  Ormarr  again. 

The  bird  was  sitting  close  on  the  rock.  Einar  fired,  and, 
raising  his  gun,  saw  that  the  bird  was  still  in  the  same 
position.  Seeing  no  feathers  fly,  he  thought  he  must  have 
missed,  and  loaded  again.  Then  creeping  cautiously  for- 
ward, he  rested  his  gun  on  a  stone,  and  fired  again.  The 
ptarmigan  did  not  move.  Einar  felt  sure  his  shot  must 
have  taken  effect.  He  went  right  up  to  it.  The  bird  was 
dead  enough,  but  what  was  more,  it  was  cold.  And  lifting 
it,  he  saw  a  piece  of  paper  tied  to  one  of  its  legs,  with  a 
few  words  in  pencil:  "Clever  shot,  aren't  you?  Thanks 
for  a  pleasant  day's  sport. — Ormarr." 

"Curse  the  little  jackanapes!" 

Einar  never  told  any  one  after  all  how  he  had  scored  off 
Ormarr  that  day. 


ORMARR  0RLYGYSSON  15 

Ormarr  hurried  along  up  hill  and  down,  firing  and  re- 
loading rapidly,  scarcely  seeming  to  take  aim  at  all,  but 
never  missing  his  bird.  His  narrow  sunburnt  face  was 
flushed  with  exertion,  and  drops  of  perspiration  trickled 
down  from  his  forehead.  His  eyes  searched  eagerly  about 
for  game,  and  in  a  very  short  time  he  had  a  bag  of  twenty- 
seven.  Then  suddenly,  coming  round  the  corner  of  a  rock, 
he  stood  face  to  face  with  Pall  a  Seyru.  Pall  tried  to  avoid 
him,  but  Ormarr  called  him  back.  He  sat  down,  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  face,  and  smiled  as  Pall  came  up. 

"Puh — I'm  warm  enough,  for  all  it's  fifteen  degrees  of 
frost.  You  look  half  frozen." 

Pall  muttered  something,  and  tried  to  hide  his  empty 
sack,  which  had  the  effect  of  drawing  Ormarr 's  attention  to  it. 

"What's  that — going  back  home  with  an  empty  bag? 
Won't  Bjarni  let  you  have  things  any  more?" 

"I'm  in  debt  there  already.  And  I  couldn't  promise  to 
pay  before  next  autumn." 

"But  at  Christmas-time — and  you're  not  a  rich  man." 

"That  makes  but  little  difference  in  his  books." 

"Ho — who  says  that — you?" 

"  'Twas  Bjarni  said  so." 

"And  you  had  to  go  and  ask  him — beg  of  him — like 
that?" 

"Our  cow  didn't  calve,  and  we've  no  milk.  And  there's 
no  food  in  the  place  beyond." 

"H'm.  What  were  you  going  this  way  round  for? 
'Tisn't  any  short  way  home." 

"I  didn't  want  to  meet  anyone." 

"And  going  back  empty-handed?  Why  didn't  you  come 
to  us?" 

"I've  been  a  burden  to  many  this  long  time — to  your 
folk  more  than  any.  And  I'll  not  ask  for  help  from  the 
parish." 

Something  in  the  man's  face  made  Ormarr  catch  his 
breath.  The  blood  left  his  cheeks,  and  in  a  hushed  voice 
he  asked: 


16  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"You  mean — you'd  ..." 

Pall  nodded.  "Yes.  There's  times  when  it  seems  better 
than  living  on  this  way." 

Ormarr  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Pall  .  .  .  here,  take  these  birds — just  from  me.  And 
come  home  and  talk  to  father.  You  must.  He'll  be  just 
as  glad  to  do  anything  as  you  could  be  for  it.  As  for 
Bjarni,  he's  a  cur.  You  can  tell  him  so  from  me  next  time 
you  see  him." 

Pall  was  silenced,  and  tears  rose  to  his  eyes.  Ormarr 
understood,  and  said  no  more.  They  divided  the  birds  into 
two  lots,  though  Ormarr  would  gladly  have  carried  the 
whole,  and  in  silence  they  started  off  down  the  slope. 

Ormarr  slept  in  a  bed  next  to  his  father's.  It  had  been 
his  mother's  bed.  When  the  light  was  put  out  that  night, 
Ormarr  had  not  yet  found  courage  to  tell  what  he  had 
been  thinking  of  since  his  meeting  with  Pall  that  day. 
Nor  did  he  know  what  had  passed  between  his  father  .*JL 
Pall. 

Half  an  hour  later,  perceiving  that  his  father  was  still 
awake,  he  managed  to  whisper,  softly  and  unsteadily: 

"Father!" 

It  was  as  if  0rlygur  had  been  waiting  for  this.  He  rose, 
and  seated  himself  at  the  boy's  bedside. 

"  'Twas  well  you  met  Pall  this  morning,  lad.  His  wife 
and  two  little  children  were  waiting  for  him  to  come  home." 

The  words  gave  Ormarr  the  courage  he  had  lacked. 

"Father,  may  I  give  him  Blesa?  His  cow  won't  calve 
for  six  weeks,  and  they've  no  milk." 

"I've  promised  Pall  to  send  him  Skjalda,  and  a  few 
loads  of  hay  the  first  fine  day  the  roads  are  passable.  And 
I  am  going  to  take  little  Gudrun  to  live  here — they've 
enough  to  do  as  it  is." 

Ormarr 's  heart  was  full  of  thankfulness  to  his  father  for 
his  kindness  to  Pall.  But  he  was  shy  of  speaking;  words 
might  say  less  than  he  meant.  And  there  must  be  no  mis- 
understanding between  his  father  and  himself — this  thought 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  17 

was  always  in  Ormarr's  mind,  for  he  loved  his  father  deeply. 
Now  in  the  darkness  of  the  room,  he  could  hardly  distin- 
guish his  features,  but  in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  him  clearly, 
sitting  there  on  the  bedside.  He  knew  every  line  in  the 
calm,  composed  face,  finely  framed  in  the  dark  hair  and 
brown  beard.  Often  he  had  been  told  that  there  was  not 
a  handsomer  man  to  be  found  than  his  father.  He  had  the 
physique  of  an  athlete,  and  Ormarr  knew  his  every  move- 
ment and  attitude.  He  strove  now  to  breathe  all  his  love 
towards  the  loved  figure,  vaguely  seen  in  reality,  yet  clear 
as  ever  to  his  mind.  He  felt  that  his  father  could  not  fail 
to  perceive  the  mute  expression  of  his  loving  gratitude. 

For  a  while  both  were  silent.  Then  0rlygur  rose,  and 
smoothing  his  son's  hair,  he  said: 

"You  know,  Ormarr,  that  all  I  possess  will  in  time  belong 
to  you  and  your  brother.  Then  you  will  be  able  to  give 
away  more  than  trifles.  At  present,  you  have  little  to  use 
in  charity,  but  what  you  have,  you  may  do  with  as  you  please. 
Remember  that  it  is  our  duty  to  help  those  who  are  poorer 
wherever  we  can.  And  when  you  hear  of  any  one  that  needs 
a  helping  hand,  always  come  to  me.  Wealth  is  not  lost  by 
charity.  And  now  good-night — it  is  time  we  were  asleep." 

He  went  back  to  his  bed,  and  a  moment  after,  spoke 
again. 

"Ormarr,  you  remember  how  generous  your  mother 
always  was.  You  seem  to  grow  more  like  her  every  day. 
I  think  she  would  have  been  very  happy  tonight. ' ' 

Ormarr  burst  into  tears,  hiding  his  face  in  the  pillow 
to  make  no  sound.  And  after  a  little  while,  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  next  morning,  he  felt  for  the  first  time 
since  his  mother's  death  as  if  she  were  invisibly  present 
among  them — as  a  link  between  his  father  and  himself. 

And  he  was  filled  with  a  proud  sense  of  having  entered 
into  a  secret  covenant  with  his  father;  it  gave  him  a  feel- 
ing of  manhood,  of  responsibility. 


CHAPTER  II 

BJARNI  JONSSON,  the  trader,  and  Daniel  Sveisson, 
The  parish  priest, — Sera  Daniel,  as  he  was  called, 
— sat  drinking  in  Bjarni  Jonsson's  front  parlour. 
They  were  seated  by  the  window,  looking  out  over  the  fjord. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  shadow  of  the  house  was 
flung  far  out  over  the  smooth  sea.  The  smoke  from  the  chim- 
ney had  already  reached  the  rocky  haunt  of  the  eider  duck. 
The  cliff  was  the  borne  of  immense  flocks  of  many-coloured 
birds,  for  it  was  spring,  and  the  breeding  season  was  at  its 
height.  Numbers  of  gorgeous  drakes  were  swimming  round 
the  rock,  and  amongst  them  a  few  plump  and  comely  eider 
duck,  taking  an  hour's  rest  from  their  duties  before  sunset, 
leaving  the  nest  and  eggs  to  the  care  of  the  father  birds. 

Sera  Daniel  enjoyed  the  view,  for  he  was  looking  out  over 
his  property.  The  eider-duck  cliffs,  even  those  farther 
out,  were  by  ancient  custom  regarded  as  belonging  to  the 
living.  And  they  brought  him  in  a  very  nice  little  sum. 

He  puffed  away  at  his  long  pipe  in  silence. 

Bjarni  noticed  his  contented  air,  and  was  not  pleased. 
Surely  it  would  be  more  reasonable  that  the  revenue  from 
the  eider-duck  cliffs  should  come  to  him,  Bjarni,  as  owner  of 
the  shore  lands.  But  priests  were  all  alike,  a  greedy  lot! 
For  ages  past  they  had  been  petted  and  spoiled  with  all 
sorts  of  unjust  privileges  and  unreasonable  perquisites.  And 
what  did  they  do  for  it  all?  Nothing  in  the  least  degree 
useful,  nor  ever  had — unless  it  were  something  useful  to 
grow  fat  themselves  in  a  comfortable  cure. 

Such  was  Bjarni 's  train  of  thought.  And  he  meant  it 
all  quite  earnestly.  But  he  said  nothing,  for,  outwardly, 
he  and  Sera  Daniel  were  the  best  of  friends — drank  their 
grog  together,  and  played  cards  in  all  good  fellowship.  At 

18 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  19 

the  moment,  they  were  only  waiting  for  the  doctor  to  come 
and  take  a  hand. 

No,  in  his  inmost  heart  Bjarni  detested  the  priest;  the 
portly  figure  of  the  man  was  a  continual  eyesore  to  him. 
Sera  Daniel  was  a  man  of  imposing  presence,  there  was 
dignity  and  calm  authority  in  his  carriage  and  bearing,  and 
Bjarni,  having  no  such  attributes  himself,  found  herein 
further  cause  for  jealousy. 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  less  imposing  specimen  of  the 
human  male  than  Bjarni  Jonsson,  trader,  of  Hofsf jordur. 
Outwardly,  he  resembled  more  an  ill-nourished  errand  boy 
than  anything  else.  His  face  was  grey  and  angular,  the 
top  of  his  head  was  covered  with  a  growth  of  colourless 
hair,  and  his  pale  blue  eyes  were  as  a  rule  void  of  ex- 
pression, for  the  reason  that  he  was  in  constant  fear  of 
betraying  his  ever-present  jealousy  of  every  one  and  every- 
thing round  him.  And  the  struggle  had  marked  his  face, 
his  eyes,  every  movement  of  his  puny,  stunted  body,  with 
a  stamp  of  servile  cunning.  His  clothes  hung  about  him 
like  the  rags  of  a  scarecrow  in  the  field,  the  draggled 
moustacihe  that  hid  most  of  his  mouth  added  to  the  general 
impression  of  meanness  and  insincerity. 

At  a  first  glance,  Sera  Daniel  presented  a  complete  con- 
trast. 

His  burly,  well-fed  body  seemed  to  exhale  an  atmosphere 

of  cordiality an  ecclesiastical  cheerfulness  which  gave  his 

whole  bearing  something  of  the  stamp  of  the  prelate.  His 
fair  hair  carefully  brushed  back  from  the  broad,  arched 
forehead,  the  blue,  beaming  eyes,  the  frank  expression  of 
his  clean-shaven  face,  which,  however,  never  for  a  moment 
relapsed  from  the  bright,  superior,  yet  mild  professional 
mask  of  dignity,  of  healthy  godliness  attained  through 
inward  strife  and  by  the  grace  of  Heaven;  the  placid,  yet 
telling  gestures  of  his  somewhat  large,  plump  hands;  the 
sonorous  voice  with  its  echo  of  sanctity;  and  last,  not  least, 
his  faultless  black  attire — in  short,  his  whole  outward  ap- 
pearance seemed  to  combine  human  forbearance  and  lofty 
understanding  with  the  rare  power  of  living  a  full  and 


20  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

yet  exemplary  life,  kindly  chastening  himself  as  well  as 
others — all  the  qualities  that  go  to  the  making  of  a  true 
servant  of  the  Lord. 

But  the  simple,  canny  folk  among  whom  he  lived,  and 
from  whom  he  himself  was  sprung,  had  not  been  long  in 
penetrating  beneath  these  externals.  They  realized  that  he 
played  his  part  well,  and  with  a  suitable  mask,  which  they 
tolerated,  even  respecting  him  for  the  same — at  any  rate, 
in  his  presence,  or  when  young  people  were  about.  But 
the  elders  among  themselves  were  not  afraid  of  unmasking 
Sera  Daniel  with  a  sly  wink,  as  it  were,  in  a  manner  of 
which  he  would  certainly  not  have  approved,  nor  found 
consistent  with  the  respect  due  to  their  spiritual  guide. 

Men  played  their  parts  well  in  the  parish  of  Hofsf  jordur. 

And  in  the  opinion  of  his  parishioners,  Sera  Daniel  was 
not  the  only  one  who  played  a  part  at  variance  with  the 
character  behind  the  mask,  though  Sera  Daniel  himself 
might  have  believed  so. 

There  was  one  family,  or  more  exactly,  a  single  figure, 
that  did  not  fit  in  with  the  cast  of  the  local  comedy.  A 
keen  observer  could  not  have  failed  to  notice  that  the  life  of 
the  community  centred  round  this  one  man:  a  dominant  fig- 
ure among  the  rest,  who  knew  how  to  shape  their  views 
according  to  his  will.  And  he  was  a  source  of  much  annoy- 
ance to  the  actors  proper,  more  especially  those  who  had 
cast  themselves  for  leading  roles.  That  man  was  0rlygur 
a  Borg. 

0rlygur  was  in  his  forty-second  year.  From  early 
youth  he  had  been  the  natural  leader  among  his  fellows; 
first  and  foremost,  of  course,  as  only  son  and  heir  to  Borg, 
but  also  by  virtue  of  his  personality,  which  was  excellently 
suited  to  bear  the  rank  and  wealth  and  responsibility  in- 
herited from  his  forebears,  who  had,  as  far  back  as  the 
memory  of  man,  been  the  self-appointed  and  generally  re- 
spected leaders  of  the  community. 

0rlygur  a  Borg,  apart  from  being  the  greatest  .land-owner 
in  the  district,  was  also  chairman  of  the  local  council,  and 
led  the  singing  in  church — in  short,  all  that  an  Icelander 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  21 

combining  wealth  with  intellect  and  personality  could  at- 
tain. |  ,  ^ 

Moreover — and  this  was  perhaps  the  corner-stone  in  the 
edifice  of  his  absolute  authority — he  was  a  conscientious  ad- 
viser, an  untiring  and  disinterested  helper  of  the  poor,  and 
an  experienced  and  successful,  albeit  unlicensed,  veterinary 
surgeon^  In  this  last  capacity  he  was  consulted  not  only 
by  the  district,  but  also  by  many  from  other  counties,  who 
were  glad  of  his  unfeed  advice  and  skilful  aid. 

It  was  generally  recognized  that  0rlygur  a  Borg  was  ever 
ready  to  serve  and  assist  any  one,  however  humble,  provided 
they  accepted  him  as  a  ruler.  He  never  tolerated  any  at- 
tempt to  place  others  on  a  footing  of  equality  with  himself, 
or  any  violation  of  his  privileges,  however  slight.  To  those 
who  submitted  to  his  sway,  he  was  a  mild  and  gracious 
god;  to  those  who  forgot  the  deference  he  demanded,  he  was 
a  merciless  tyrant,  swooping  down  on  them  in  defiance  of  all 
generally  accepted  notions  of  justice — though  he  would  for- 
get and  forgive  readily  enough  when  it  was  over. 

The  peasants  did  not  mind  this.  To  them,  0rlygur  a  Borg 
was  a  kind  of  human  Providence — no  less  inevitable,  and 
probably  more  pleasant,  than  the  divine.  They  knew,  of 
course,  that  there  was  a  King  who  ruled  over  all,  includ- 
ing the  King  of  Borg.  But  they  were  nevertheless  inclined 
to  place  both  on  the  same  level.  In  the  event  of  conflict 
arising,  doubtless  0rlygur  a  Borg  would  be  a  match  for  the 
other — even  to  gaining  for  himself  the  armlet  of  sovereign 
power,  as  Halldor  Snorrason  had  done  in  the  fight  with 
Harold  Hardrada.  0rlygur  was  equal  to  that  at  least. 

Their  faith  in  him  amounted  almost  to  a  religion.  They 
felt  themselves,  under  his  protection,  secure  and  well  pro- 
vided for. 

Some  few  there  were,  however,  who  did  not  approve 
of  the  unlimited  power  generally  conceded  to  0rlygur  a 
Borg,  and  disliked  what)  they  considered  his  unjustifiable  as- 
sumption of  superiority.  This  spring,  there  were  at  least 
three  such  discontented  souls  within  the  parish.  Two  of  them 
we  have  met  already — Sera  Daniel  and  the  trader,  drinking 


22  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

their  grog  in  the  parlour  looking  over  the  sea.  And  the 
third  of  the  rebels  was  the  doctor,  whom  they  were  expect- 
ing to  join  them  in  a  hand  at  cards. 

The  priest  and  the  trader,  when  alone  together,  spoke  but 
little.  They  had  no  interests  in  common.  Their  intellectual 
sphere  was  very  limited,  and  both  had  the  same  characteristic 
of  the  narrow-minded:  concentrating  every  atom  of  thought 
and  will  each  on  his  own  well-being.  Consequently,  all  talk 
between  the  two  was  obviously  insincere;  so  much  so,  that 
even  these  two  not  very  sensitive  beings  realized  the  fact, 
and  instinctively  shrank  from  any  intimacy  of  conversa- 
tion. 

On  this  occasion,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  the  doctor 
kept  them  waiting  longer  than  usual,  and  Bjarni,  as  host, 
could  not  well  sit  all  the  time  without  a  word.  At  last, 
by  way  of  saying  something,  he  asked  how  the  wool  was 
getting  on. 

"Dry  and  packed  three  days  ago,"  answered  Sera  Daniel. 

Bj ami's  eyes  flashed,  and  a  smile  nickered  for  a  moment 
over  his  wooden  face. 

Sera  Daniel  read  that  smile,  and  marked  the  scorn  of 
it.  But  as  the  scorn,  he  knew,  applied  no  less  to  the  smiler 
than  to  himself  he  refrained,  on  principle,  from  taking 
offence. 

Bjarni  looked  him  straight  in  the  face,  and  their  eyes 
met.  Then  suddenly  both  realized  that  this  innocent  and 
haphazard  attempt  at  casual  conversation  had  opened  up 
common  ground  between  them,  an  unexpected  community 
of  interest  where  each  had  only  thought  to  find  the 
altogether  unwished-for  company  of  the  other. 

Bjarni  did  not  quite  know*  how  to  improve  the  oppor- 
tunity at  first.  He  decided  on  a  gambit  of  innocent 
raillery. 

"Yes,  we're  ready  to  weigh  it  now,  I  suppose  .  .  .  that 
is,  of  course  ..." 

Sera  Daniel  looked  searchingly  at  him,  unwilling  as  yet 
to  take  any  definite  step  himself. 

"What  are  you  paying  this  season?" 


ORMARE  0RLTGSSON  23 

"Sixty-five  for  best  white,  forty-two  for  black  and 
mixed. ' ' 

Sera  Daniel  glanced  at  him  with  a  curious  smile.  "Is 
that — ah — the  ordinary  price,  or  what  you  are  paying 
0rlygur  a  Borg?" 

The  trader's  face  flushed  violently;  the  hand  holding  the 
glass  trembled  a  little.  Without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
Sera  Daniel  made  another  shot. 

"Or  perhaps  you  are  thinking  of  paying  the  same  price 
to  all — for  once?" 

Bjarni  eyed  him  awhile  in  silence.  He  seemed  to  be 
turning  over  something  in  his  mind.  The  priest  felt  the 
glance,  and  knew  what  lay  behind  it,  but  evinced  no  dis- 
comfiture. On  the  contrary,  he  met  the  trader's  eyes  with 
a  smile  of  irritating  calm. 

At  last  Bjarni  spoke. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "if  you  can  let  me  have  your 
wool  tomorrow  morning." 

That  same  night  Ormarr  sat  on  the  slope  of  the  hill 
looking  down  to  Hofsa — just  above  the  spot  where  the  wool 
from  Borg  was  washed  every  spring.  He  was  keeping 
watch  over  the  clip.  Large  quantities  were  already  dry 
and  stowed  in  bags;  the  grassy  slopes  were  dotted  with  little 
white  piles  of  that  which  had  still  to  be  spread,  waiting  till 
the  morning  sun  had  drawn  the  dew. 

Silently,  filled  with  emotion,  Ormarr  gazed  at  the  beauty 
and  peace  of  the  spring  night.  The  sky  was  clear  and  blue, 
and  bright  as  day. 

Below  him  flowed  the  crystal  rivulets,  and  farther  off, 
above  green  mountain  slopes  veiled  in  the  glistening  web 
of  dew,  rose  stark  grey  cliffs,  furrowed  by  glimmering 
waters,  higher  up  again,  the  luminous  white  of  the  snow 
peaks,  tinted  all  the  night  through  with  the  gold  of  dancing 
sun  rays. 

From  his  childhood  Ormarr  had  claimed  the  privilege  of 
keeping  guard  during  the  spring  nights.  In  the  earlier  part 
of  the  season,  he  took  his  post  on  the  freshly  growing  pasture 


24  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

lands,  keeping  the  sheep  and  horses  from  straying  in  to 
nibble  off  the  first  blades  of  the  young  grass.  Later,  when 
the  sheep  were  shorn  and  driven  up  to  the  mountains,  he 
mounted  guard  over  the  wool,  keeping  a  keen  look-out  for 
prowling  vagabonds,  and  covering  up  the  heaps  with  tar- 
paulin in  case  of  sudden  rain. 

To  him,  the  vigils  of  these  quiet  nights  were  as  hours 
of  devotion.  During  the  lonely  watches,  he  bared  his  soul 
in  worship  of  the  majesty  of  nature,  free  of  the  restraint 
he  always  felt  in  the  presence  of  others.  He  drank  in  the 
fresh  night  air,  with  its  sweetness  of  spring,  like  a  precious 
draught.  And  at  times,  the  depth  of  his  feeling  brought 
great  tears  to  his  eyes.  Alone,  he  could  allow  himself  to 
some  extent  thus  to  give  way  to  emotion,  yet  even  then  not 
without  a  certain  sense  of  shame. 

Tonight  he  was  sadder  than  ever.  It  would  be  fine  to- 
morrow, the  last  of  the  wool  would  dry  during  the  day, 
in  time  to  be  fetched  away  before  evening. 

That  meant  it  was  his  last  night's  watch  this  spring. 

His  eyes  took  leave  of  the  wild  duck  swimming  in  the 
stream  near  their  nests,  that  he  had  cared  for  and  protected ; 
several  times  he  had  waded  out  to  see  how  they  fared.  He 
looked  the  hillside  up  and  down,  bidding  good-bye  to  the 
buttercups  and  dandelions — every  morning  he  had  watched 
their  opening,  a  solitary  witness,  as  they  unfolded  at  the 
gracious  bidding  of  the  sun.  He  noted,  too,  the  great 
clusters  of  tiny-flowered  forget-me-nots  that  grew  everywhere 
around. 

At  five  o'clock  he  rose  to  go.  From  one  of  the  chimneys 
smoke  was  already  rising,  thin  and  clear  as  from  a  censer; 
old  Ossa  had  hung  the  big  kettle  over  the  fire  for  early 
coffee.  A  big  plate  of  new  bread  would  be  waiting  for  him, 
with  butter,  meat,  cheese,  and  a  steaming  cup  of  coffee — 
a  delicious  meal. 

From  force  of  habit  he  glanced  round  before  moving  off; 
counted  the  chimneys  from  which  smoke  was  rising,  and 
looked  about  for  any  other  signs  of  life.  Then  suddenly  he 
realized  that  something  unusual  was  going  on.  With  trem- 


OKMABB  ^ELYGSSON  25 

bling  hands  he  adjusted  the  telescope  he  always  carried,  and 
looked  towards  the  spot. 

A  moment  later  he  lowered  the  glass  and  stared  in  be- 
wilderment towards  the  fjord.  In  a  flash  he  realized  what 
was  happening,  and  set  off  home  at  full  speed. 

Heedless  of  Ossa  and  the  meal  she  had  already  waiting 
for  him,  he  dashed  up  to  his  father 's  room,  not  even  stopping, 
as  was  his  wont,  to  caress  the  fair  curly  head  of  tiny  Gudrun, 
the  three-year-old  daughter  of  Pall  a  Seyru,  whom  0rlygur 
had  adopted.  Ormarr  loved  the  child. 

He  did  not  stop  till  he  reached  his  father's  bed.  When 
0rlygur  opened  his  eyes,  he  saw  Ormarr  standing  before  him, 
very  pale,  and  breathless  with  his  speed.  The  sight  startled 
even  the  King  of  Borg  out  of  his  habitual  calm;  he  sat  up 
with  a  start.  Realizing  instinctively  that  something  was 
wrong,  he  reached  out  for  his  clothes  at  once. 

"What  is  it,  my  son?" 

' '  Father  .  .  .  Sera  Daniel  .  .  .  carting  his  wool  in  already 
to  the  station.  ..." 

0rlygur  was  already  getting  into  his  clothes.  He  stopped 
motionless  for  a  second;  then  a  faint  smile  passed  over  his 
face,  and  he  seemed  to  be  thinking.  In  less  than  a  minute 
he  had  made  up  his  mind. 

"The  horses!" 

Ormarr  did  not  wait  for  any  further  order.  He  hurried 
out  of  the  room,  snatched  up  a  bridle,  and  ran  out  calling: 

' '  Gryla,  K^put,  Kondut ! ' ' 

Barking  and  delighted,  the  farm  dogs  clustered  round  him, 
and  followed  him  out  into  the  paddock,  where  he  caught 
his  father's  horse  and  vaulted  into  the  saddle. 

Ten  minutes  later,  forty  horses  were  stamping  and  neigh- 
ing ready  for  work.  Swiftly  they  were  brought  round, 
the  pack-saddle  put  on,  and  loaded  up  with  the  finished 
wool. 

Ormarr  had  overheard  his  father's  brief,  sharp  orders  to 
the  foreman,  a  man  he  could  trust.  He  had  kept  close  at 
hand  all  the  time,  listening  eagerly  to  what  was  said.  At 
last,  when  all  was  ready  for  the  start,  he  looked  up  earnestly. 


26  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

" Father— may  I?" 

0rlygur  a  Borg  looked  at  his  son  in  surprise. 

"You?    Nay,  lad,  I'm  afraid  that  would  hardly  do." 

But  his  voice  was  not  so  decided,  harsh  almost,  as  it 
was  wont  to  be  when  he  refused  a  request.  He  even  glanced 
inquiringly,  as  it  were,  at  the  foreman,  who  smiled  back 
merrily  in  return.  That  seemed  to  settle  it.  Ormarr's  eyes 
were  bright  with  anticipation. 

0rlygur  laid  one  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder — not  patting 
his  head  or  cheek  as  he  generally  did — and  said : 

"Good.  You  can  do  the  talking.  You  heard  what  is  to 
|be  said  and  done — you  are  sure  you  understand?" 

Ormarr  did  not  give  himself  time  to  answer.  But  his 
leap  into  the  saddle  was  enough;  evidently  he  had  grasped 
the  spirit  of  his  father's  commands. 

They  did  not  take  the  usual  route  to  the  trading  station; 
anything  moving  along  that  road  would  be  visible  from  be- 
low for  the  greater  part  of  the  way.  And  they  were  to 
come  unexpectedly.  Therefore  they  took  the  road  across 
Borgarhals  and  Nordurdal,  so  as  to  reach  the  station  before 
any  knew  of  their  coming. 

It  was  the  unwritten  law  of  the  district  that  no  wool 
should  be  brought  to  the  station  before  the  King  of  Borg 
had  sent  in  his.  The  custom  dated  back  further  than  any  could 
remember,  it  was  part  of  the  traditional  precedence  gener- 
ally conceded  to  the  masters  of  Borg.  At  first,  it  had  sprung 
from  a  natural  desire  among  the  people  to  show  their  re- 
spect for  their  chieftain  and  benefactor.  Then,  when  it  had 
grown  to  be  a  time-honoured  custom,  the  men  of  Borg  had 
taken  care  to  have  it  maintained,  regarding  any  violation 
as  a  personal  affront,  a  challenge — and  none  had  ever  known 
such  challenge  to  remain  unpunished. 

There  was,  moreover,  another  custom  in  connection  with 
the  sales  of  wool — to  wit,  that  0rlygur  a  Borg  fixed  his  own 
price  for  his,  while  the  others  who  had  wool  to  sell  had  to  be 
satisfied  with  what  the  trader  chose  to  pay  them.  0rlygur 
took  no  heed  of  ruling  market  prices,  but  based  his  figures 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  27 

on  the  prices  he  had  to  pay  during  the  past  year  for  goods 
he  himself  had  bought  from  the  trader. 

No  one  grumbled  at  the  arrangement.  0rlygur  always 
paid  cash  for  what  he  ordered,  while  every  one  else  found 
it  necessary  to  take  goods  on  credit;  all  had  an  account, 
great  or  small,  with  Bjarni,  and  were  in  consequence  de- 
pendent on  his  good-will.  They  knew,  that  in  the  event  of 
Bjarni 's  good-will  failing,  there  was  always  0rlygur,  ever 
ready  to  help  whoever  asked. 

Truth  to  tell,  Bjarni,  the  trader,  was  not  a  little  nervous 
when  Sera  Daniel  arrived  with  his  wool  early  in  the  morning. 
He  did  his  best,  however,  to  conceal  his  uneasiness,  but  the 
false  jocularity  with  which  he  strove  to  hide  it  was  belied 
by  the  anxious  glances  wherewith  he  scanned  every  now  and 
then  the  road  from  Borg. 

The  weighing  in  was  done  in  the  big  warehouse.  Sera 
Daniel  was  smiling  and  confident  as  usual,  though  his  eyes 
showed  signs  of  having  slept  ill  the  night  before. 

"Well,  Sera  Daniel,"  said  Bjarni,  who  was  watching  the 
weighing  with  mock  earnestness,  "this  is  a  bold  stroke  of 
yours  indeed."  He  glanced;  hurriedly  in  the  direction  of 
Borg  as  he  spoke.  "Frankly  I  was  not  at  all  sure  that  you 
would  have  ventured,  when  it  came  to  the  point.  Anyhow, 
I  fancy  this  marks  the  end  of  'the  King's'  supremacy." 

The  doctor  came  up,  yawning,  and  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"Aha — this  looks  nice,"  he  observed.  And  then,  refer- 
ring to  Bjarni 's  last  remark,  he  went  on:  "And  it's  high 
time  we  did  start  acting  for  ourselves.  Eebellion,  eh?  I 
tell  you  what,  I'll  stand  drinks  all  round  when  you've 
finished  here." 

There  was  great  commotion  at  the  station;  folk  hung 
about  in  crowds  outside  the  stockroom.  A  few  only  dared 
to  enter;  the  rest  preferred  to  wait  and  see  what  happened. 
They  were  not  without  a  certain  satisfaction  at  the  act  of 
rebellion,  albeit  aware  that  it  was  their  duty  to  feel  indig- 
nant. There  was  a  general  atmosphere  of  excitement — what 
would  happen  next  ? 

"And  this  year  the  price  of  wool  is  the  same  to  all,"  said 


28  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Bjarni  exultantly  to  the  doctor.  "If  he  doesn't  care  to 
deal  with  me,  he  can  go  to  Jon  Borgari. ' ' 

The  doctor  laughed  loudly,  and  Sera  Daniel  smiled  ap- 
proval. Jon  Borgari  was  a  man  of  sixty,  who  had  set  up 
on  his  own  account  in  a  small  way,  some  five  years  back. 
On  payment  of  fifty  Kroner,  he  had  acquired  a  licence  to 
trade.  His  store  was  a  mean  little  place,  his  whole  stock-in- 
trade  hardly  amounted  to  more  than  one  of  0rlygur's  ordi- 
nary purchases  from  Bjarni.  He  had  found  it  impossible  to 
do  any  considerable  business,  as  the  peasants  were  all  in 
debt  to  Bjarni  already,  and  could  not  transfer  their  custom 
elsewhere.  Jon  was  considerably  older  than  Bjarni,  but  the 
latter 's  business  was  of  longer  standing.  Bjarni  had  moved 
to  Hofsfjordur  twelve  years  before,  and  partly,  at  least,  by 
his  industry  and  smartness,  he  had  compelled  an  old-estab- 
lished house  in  the  place,  a  branch  of  a  foreign,  firm,  to  close 
down.  This  he  could  never  have  done  had  it  not  been  for  the 
patronage  of  0rlygur  a  Borg. 

It  was  commonly  supposed  that  Jon  Borgari  had  saved 
a  good  sum  in  his  time — and  the  idea  was  further  supported 
by  his  recent  marriage  to  a  maiden  of  eighteen,  who  had 
accepted  him  in  preference  to  many  eager  suitors  of  the 
younger  generation.  But  no  one  ever  dreamed  of  consider- 
ing Jon  Borgari  as  a  possible  "purveyor  to  the  King." 

Bjarni 's  warehousemen  were  busy  weighing  in  the  priest's 
consignment.  There  was  still  no  sign  of  life  on  the  road 
from  Borg.  And  gradually  even  Bjarni  himself  began  to 
forget  his  fears. 

Then  suddenly  the  blow  fell.  Ormarr  with  his  five  men, 
and  the  laden  horses,  came  galloping  up :  0rlygur  a  Borg  had 
sent  his  wool. 

Bjarni  was  struck  with  amazement;  for  a  moment  he 
could  not  grasp  the  situation.  Sera  Daniel  retired  prudently 
to  the  back  of  the  room.  The  doctor  joined  him,  with  an 
expression  of  pleasant  anticipation  on  his  puffy  face.  This 
was  going  to  be  amusing.  And,  fortunately,  he  himself  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  affair. 

When  the  first  shock  had  passed  off,  Bjarni  realized  with 


ORMAEB  ^KLYGSSON  29 

a  feeling  of  relief  that  0rlygur  himself  had  stayed  at  home. 
To  the  onlooker  this  was  a  wonder  in  itself.  Never  before 
had  0rlygur  a  Borg  sent  in  his  wool  without  accompanying 
it  in  person. 

For  a  moment  all  sorts  of  wild  conjectures  passed  through 
Bjarni's  brain.  And  then — he  committed  the  fatal  error 
of  coming  to  the  conclusion  which  best  suited  himself; 
0rlygur  must  have  stayed  away  in  order  to  avoid  being 
present  at  his  own  defeat,  in  the  setting  aside  of  ancient 
custom. 

Ormarr  did  not  dismount.  He  rode  straight  up  to  the 
trader,  and  said: 

"My  father  has  given  orders  that  his  wool  is  to  be  weighed 
in  at  once." 

He  spoke  without  the  slightest  trace  of  emotion;  as  if 
it  were  a  matter  of  course  that  the  trader  should  stop  the 
weighing  of  any  one  else's  wool  and  attend  to  0rlygur's 
forthwith. 

Bjarni  again  indulged  in  an  erroneous  inference:  0rly- 
gur  a  Borg  had  stayed  away  because  he  feared  his  demands 
might  be  refused.  And  if  "the  King"  himself  thought  that 
possible — why,  then,  it  could  be  done! 

A  wave  of  joy  swept  over  Bjarni.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
already  won  a  decisive  battle  against  heavy  odds.  And  his 
reply  was  given  in  a  tone  more  overbearing  than  usual — 
though  he  regretted  it  the  moment  he  had  spoken. 

"We  can't  very  well  stop  weighing  in  this  lot  now.  What 
do  you  say,  Sera  Daniel?" 

Sera  Daniel  said  nothing  at  all.  His  friend  Bjarni  would 
have  to  carry  the  matter  through  without  assistance. 

Bjarni  turned  to  Ormarr  once  more — the  boy  was  still  in 
the  saddle — and  adopting  a  fatherly  tone,  went  on : 

"But  it  won't  take  very  long,  you  know.  If  you  start 
unloading  the  horses  now,  and  get  the  bales  undone,  while 
we're  finishing  this,  there  won't  be  much  time  lost." 

But  before  any  one  could  say  more,  a  new  development 
occurred.  0rlygur  a  Borg,  on  his  snorting,  fiery  mount, 
Sleipnir,  dashed  into  the  stockroom. 


30  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

His  entry  came  like  a  thunder-clap.  The  onlookers,  who 
had  kept  their  distance  up  to  now,  drew  closer  in,  holding 
their  breath.  No  one,  not  even  0rlygur's  own  men,  with 
the  exception  of  Ormarr,  had  expected  this. 

Bjarni,  Sera  Daniel,  and  the  doctor  greeted  him  in  servile 
fashion;  he  answered  with  an  impatient  gesture,  as  of  a 
sovereign  in  ungracious  mood  towards  importunate  under- 
lings. Then  riding  up  to  Ormarr,  he  asked  quietly: 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?" 

"They  are  weighing  in  Sera  Daniel's  wool." 

"Has  Bjarni  refused  to  take  over  mine  at  once?" 

"Yes.     He  asked  us  to  unload  and  wait." 

"Good.     We  will  take  it  back  to  Borg." 

Then,  having  given  his  orders,  0rlygur  rode  up  to  Bjarni, 
pressing  him  so  close  that  the  foam  from  his  horse  bespat- 
tered the  trader,  forcing  him  to  retreat  step  by  step. 

"Now  mark  you  this,  Bjarni  Jonsson.  You  can  hire 
horses  yourself  to  fetch  that  wool  from  Borg.  But  do  not 
come  until  you  are  prepared  to  pay  a  heavy  price.  I  warn 
you,  my  wool  this  year  will  not  be  cheap. ' ' 

Then,  without  a  word  of  farewell,  he  turned  his  back  on 
the  speechless  and  astonished  trio,  and  with  a  cheery  smile 
to  the  crowd,  rode  homeward,  followed  by  his  men. 

That  day  messengers  were  sent  out  from  Borg  to  all  the 
farmers  round,  to  say  that  0rlygur  a  Borg  was  willing  to  buy 
wool  for  cash,  at  the  same  prices  as  offered  by  the  trader. 

Next  morning,  he  sent  off  one  of  his  men  with  a  letter  and 
a  saddle-horse  to  Jon  Borgari.  Jon  read  the  letter,  mounted 
at  once,  and  rode  back  to  Borg,  where  he  was  closeted  with 
0nlygur  for  some  time.  When  he  left  the  place,  he  looked 
as  if  ten  years  had  fallen  from  his  shoulders. 

The  farmers  understood  that  0rlygur's  offer  to  buy  their 
wool  for  cash  was  equivalent  to  a  command — they  must 
choose  between  him  and  the  trader.  And  they  did  not  hesi- 
tate a  moment. 

0rlygur  paid  them  in  gold  and  silver.  Then,  with  his 
help,  they  wrote  out  the  lists  of  the  goods  they  required,  th« 
lists  being  subsequently  handed  to  Jon  Borgari.  rJon  was 


ORMARE  0RLYGSSON  31 

now  0rlygur's  ally,  and  in  a  very  short  time  his  unpretend- 
ing little  store  was  threatening  the  trade  of  Bjarni  Jonsson's 
own. 

Bjarni  Jonsson's  trick  had  recoiled  upon  himself.     He  got 
Sera  Daniel's  wool — but  not  a  pound  from  any  one  beside. 


CHAPTER  III 

ONE  burning  hot  afternoon,  late  in  the  summer, 
Ormarr  was  sitting  up  on  the  edge  of  a  high 
ridge  of  Borgarfjall,  to  the  west  of  Borg.  A 
great  flooik  of  sheep  grazed  on  the  plateau  below. 

Ormarr,  as  shepherd,  found  his  task  light.  It  was  just 
after  lambing-time,  and  for  the  first  two  or  three  days  the 
sheep  had  been  difficult  to  handle.  Full  of  anxiety,  and 
bleating  piteously,  they  rushed  about  in  all  directions,  vainly 
seeking  their  offspring.  Now,  however,  they  had  more  or 
less  accustomed  themselves  to  the  new  state  of  things,  and 
kept  fairly  well  together,  so  that  Ormarr  was  free  to  devote 
most  of  his  time  to  his  favourite  pursuits:  playing  the 
violin,  and  dreaming. 

He  made  a  curious  picture,  this  fourteen-year-old  peasant 
lad,  as  he  sat  there,  clad  in  rough  homespun,  his  clothes 
fitting  clumsily,  and  hiding  the  lithe  beauty  of  his  frame. 
The  clear-cut  face,  the  strong  chin  resting  on  th,e  violin,  and 
the  lean  hand  with  its  supple  fingers  running  over  the  strings, 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  everyday  coat,  darned  and 
patched  in  many  places. 

Often  he  fell  into  a  reverie,  his  dark  eyes  gazing  on  the 
distant  mountains,  the  fingers  relaxing,  and  the  slender 
brown  hand  with  the  bow  resting  on  his  knee.  The  face, 
too  thin  for  a  boy  of  his  age,  bore  a  grave  and  thoughtful 
expression,  with  a  touch  of  melancholy.  The  black  masses 
of  curling,  unruly  hair,  and  the  faint  coppery  tinge  in  the 
skin,  suggested  Celtic  descent. 

Yet  despite  the  trace  of  something  foreign  in  his  appear- 
ance, he  was  at  heart  a  true  child  of  his  country.  The  wist- 
ful, dreamy  thoughts  that  burned  in  his  dark,  passionate 
eyes,  betrayed  that  rich  and  abundant  imagination  peculiar 
to  the  sons  of  Iceland,  fostered  by  the  great  solitude  and 

32 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  33 

desolate  yet  fertile  grandeur  of  the  land  itself.  So  deeply 
is  the  sense  of  that  grandeur  rooted  in  their  hearts,  that  even 
those  who  have  roamed  the  world  over,  and  lived  most  of 
their  lives  in  milder  and  richer  climes,  will  yet  declare  that 
Iceland  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all. 

Another  typical  trait  in  Ormarr's  nature  was  the  melan- 
choly that  consumed  his  soul — a  product  of  youthful  self- 
absorption  without  the  corresponding  experience. 

His  descent  from  the  ancient  and  noble  race  of  Borg 
was  apparent  in  his  chariness  of  words,  in  his  credulity, — 
it  was  a  thing  inconceivable,  that  he  or  any  of  his  should  tell 
a  falsehood, — in  his  self-reliance,  and  strong  belief  that  he 
was  in  the  right,  as  long  as  he  followed  the  dictates  of  his 
own  conscience.  Young  as  he  was,  every  look,  every  feature, 
betrayed  the  born  chieftain  in  him. 

This  was  evident  most  of  all  in  his  music — which  consisted 
mainly  of  dreams  and  fantasies  he  had  himself  composed. 
From  the  first  day  he  had  learned  to  hold  the  instrument,  he 
had  thrown  into  his  music  a  burning  interest  and  an  over- 
whelming love.  It  gave  him  the  only  possible  outlet  for  the 
longing  that  filled  him. 

Loneliness  and  despair  sobbed  in  the  sweet  and  passionate 
strains ;  the  strings  vibrated  with  a  deep  desire,  that  yet  had 
no  conscious  aim,  but  the  sound  brought  relief,  though  never 
satisfying  to  the  full. 

His  playing  revealed  his  soul  as  a  wanderer  in  the  wilder- 
ness— as  a  giant  whose  strength  is  doomed  to  slumber  under 
the  weight  of  unbreakable  shackles;  it  showed  that,  to  him, 
life  was  a  slow,  consuming  pain,  the  purpose  of  which  he 
could  not  grasp;  that  he  was  born  with  a  wealth  of  power, 
yet  found  no  single  thing  to  which  he  could  devote  it.  Here 
he  was,  heir  to  the  estate,  and  yet — perhaps  for  that  very 
reason — born  in  bondage. 

Despite  his  youth,  Ormarr  was  alive  to  the  danger  of  his 
changing  moods,  which,  as  he  often  thought,  bordered  on  in- 
sanity. Proud  as  he  was  of  being  heir  to  Borg,  he  neverthe- 
less felt  a  smouldering  hatred  of  his  heritage,  since  it  fet- 
tered him  from  birth,  "With  all  these  longing  in  his  soul,  ho 


34  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

was  conscious  of  being  himself  part  and  parcel  of  Borg; 
something  told  him  that  here,  and  here  alone,  was  the  soil 
in  which  his  personality  and  varying  moods  could  grow  into 
one  harmonious  and  united  whole.  He  had  only  to  follow 
in  the  steps  of  his  fathers.  But  this,  again,  seemed  too  easy 
a  solution  of  the  riddle  of  life — he  preferred  a  struggle  to 
the  death.  It  was  as  if  his  descent,  and  his  natural  pros- 
pects, excluded  him  from  all  the  adventures  he  longed  for; 
the  part  for  which  he  seemed  cast  was  beneath  the  level  of 
his  strength  and  ability. 

But  he  realized  that  any  outward  expression  of  such 
thoughts  would  compromise  him,  and  bring  disgrace  upon 
his  family :  he  must  conceal  them,  hide  them  in  silence,  never 
breathe  a  word  of  it  all  to  any  other.  Only  in  his  music, 
where  he  could  speak  without  betraying  himself  by  words, 
could  he  venture  to  ease  his  heart  of  its  burden. 

He  felt  like  a  galley  slave,  chained  to  the  oar  for  life,  with- 
out hope  of  escape.  The  idea  of  rebellion,  of  emancipation, 
had  never  crossed  his  mind.  Had  any  one  suggested  such  a 
thing,  he  would  have  risen  up  in  arms  against  it  at  once, 
for,  in  spite  of  all,  he  felt  himself  so  at  one  with  his  race  that 
to  desert  it  thus  would  be  nothing  less  than  to  betray 
himself. 

That  same  afternoon  an  unexpected  event  took  place  at 
Borg.  The  Vicar,  Sera  Daniel,  accompanied  by  Bjarni 
Jonsson,  came  to  call. 

0rlygur  a  Borg  was  resting  on  his  bed,  which  in  the  day- 
time was  covered,  like  a  couch,  with  a  many-coloured  rug, 
when  news  was  brought  him  of  the  visit.  The  girl  informed 
him  that  she  had  asked  the  visitors  into  the  big  hall.  0rlygur 
smiled  when  he  heard  their  names.  He  had  just  returned 
from  a  sale  of  driftwood,  held  at  the  instance  of  one  of  the 
farmers  whose  lands  ran  down  to  the  shore,  and  who  yearly 
gathered  in  large  stocks  of  washed-up  timber,  which  was 
subsequently  sold,  either  privately  or  by  auction.  He  was 
tired,  and  felt  too  comfortable  where  he  was  to  care  about 
moving. 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  35 

"Let  them  come  in  here  if  they  have  anything  to  say,"  he 
told  the  girl. 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances  when  the  message  was 
brought  them.  Each  found  a  certain  satisfaction  in  witness- 
ing the  humiliation  of  the  other,  which  helped  him  to  bear  his 
own.  Nevertheless,  on  entering  0rlygur's  room,  both  were 
visibly  embarrassed. 

0rlygur  himself  did  nothing  to  set  them  at  their  ease. 
"Without  rising,  he  took  their  proffered  hands,  answered  their 
greetings  with  a  murmur  of  something  inaudible,  and  indi- 
cated that  they  might  be  seated. 

There  was  but  a  single  chair  in  the  room,  placed  between 
the  two  beds.  Sera  Daniel  would  willingly  have  left  it  to 
Bjarni — though  he  considered  it  due  to  himself  and  his 
superior  social  position  to  take  it  in  order  not  to  be  too  close 
to  his  host.  Bjarni,  however,  had  a  similar  disinclination, 
and  forestalled  his  companion  by  taking  a  seat  at  once  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  well  pleased  at  having  attained  his  end,  while 
seeming  to  act  from  sheer  natural  modesty. 

For  a  while  no  one  spoke.  0rlygur  stretched  himself,  and 
smiled  faintly,  awaiting  the  explanation  of  the  visit. 

Sera  Daniel  cleared  his  throat  for  an  introduction  he  had 
prepared  beforehand.     But  he  got  no  futher  than  a  slight 
cough.     And,  looking  at  Bjarni,  he  perceived  that  the  latter 
was  in  a  like  predicament,  his  usually  grey  face  turning  a 
fiery  red. 

0rlygur  was  enjoying  the  situation,  and  maintained  a  ruth- 
less silence. 

Sera  Daniel  soon  realized  that  he  could  look  for  no 
assistance  from  the  trader,  who  apparently  considered  that 
the  priest's  closer  proximity  to  the  enemy  carried  with  it 
the  obligation  to  deliver  the  first  attack.  At  last  he  stam- 
mered out: 

"Er — we  have  come — to  tell  the  truth — to  see  you.  H'm — 
about  a  matter  that — er — distresses  us  somewhat.  And  we 
thought  that — perhaps — it  might  be  not  altogether  pleasant 
to  yourself — that  is  to  say — of  course — I  mean,  consider- 
ing .  .  ." 


36  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

0rlygur  slowly  rose  to  a  sitting  position.  Then  setting 
his  hands  firmly  on  his  knees  and  leaning  forward  slightly, 
he  looked  straight  into  the  other's  eyes. 

''To  tell  the  truth,  Sera  Daniel,  I  am  not  aware  of  any 
matter  which  distresses  me  in  any  way  at  the  moment.  I 
fancy  your  idea  of  something  mutually  unpleasant  must  be 
due  to  a  misunderstanding.  Your  troubles  are  hardly  mine, 
you  know ;  the  more  so  since  we  have  seen  very  little  of  each 
other  for  quite  a  long  time  now." 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  But — you  know  better  than  any 
one  else  that  it  is  you  who  set  the  example  to  all  the  parish. ' ' 

"If  that  is  so,  you  explain  yourself  badly.  I  stay  away 
from  church,  certainly — for  the  simple  reason  that  I  prefer  to 
avoid  meeting  a  clergyman  whom  I  dislike.  My  affair  with 
you  will  keep  me  away  from  church  until  it  is  settled — 
possibly  as  long  as  you  conduct  the  service  there.  If  the  rest 
of  your  parishioners  elect  to  do  the  same,  it  merely  means  that 
your  conscience  will  soon  forbid  you  to  remain  as  spiritual 
guide  to  a  flock  who  avoid  you.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  your 
conscience  should  prove  more  accommodating  in  this  respect, 
I  have  no  doubt  that  the  authorities  will  discover  in  a  short 
time  what  you  are  unable  to  see  for  yourself.  You  take  my 
meaning,  Sera  Daniel?" 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  do.  I  cannot  see  why  a  thoughtless 
action  on  my  part  last  spring — which  I  deeply  regret — should 
embitter  you  to  such  an  extent  that  you  stake  the  spiritual 
welfare  of  the  congregation  in  revenge." 

"Oh,  that's  rather  too  much.  You  say  you  regret  your 
thoughtlessness  last  spring.  I  translate  that  as  meaning 
simply  that  you  regret  having  managed  so  badly;  that  you 
realize  the  failure  of  your  clumsy  conspiracy  against  me,  with 
our  friend  the  trader  there — who  seems  worn  out  by  the 
heavy  business  of  the  summer  season,  since  he  apparently 
can't  open  his  mouth.  And  then  you  haven't  even  the 
decency  to  keep  this  sordid  affair  to  itself,  but  must  mix  it  up 
with  the  spiritual  welfare  of  your  congregation.  Well,  it 
simply  shows  that  you  are  more  impudent  even  than  I  had 
thought." 


ORMARR  ^RLYGSSON  37 

"If  it  were  not  that  my  position  as  incumbent  here  forces 
me  to  set  aside  my  personal  interests — for  the  sake  of  the 
parish,  you  understand — and  to  avert  if  possible  the  dis- 
astrous consequences — " 

"Disastrous?  My  dear  Sera  Daniel,  you  are  a  marvel. 
Unless  you  take  'the  parish'  as  meaning  yourself  and  some 
few  others,  I  cannot  see  your  argument  at  all.  I  do  not  re- 
gret, and  see  no  reason  to  regret,  what  has  taken  place,  and  I 
am  afraid  'the  parish'  takes  the  same  view.  I  am  not  one 
af  those  men  who  act  hastily  and  afterwards  regret  their  folly. 
Candidly,  Sera  Daniel,  your  ideas  are  too  vague  and  too  com- 
plicated for  me  to  care  to  discuss  them  further.  I  have  had 
quite  enough  of  empty  talk ;  let  us  come  to  facts.  And  here 
I  imagine  that  Bjarni  Jonsson  will  be  better  able  to  speak. 
How  very  fortunate  that  he  happened  to  come  at  the  same 
time." 

Then,  turning  to  Bjarni,  0rlygur  went  on: 

"As  far  as  I  remember,  we  arranged  last  time  I  saw  you, 
that  you  could  come  out  here  and  buy  my  wool  when  you  were 
prepared  to  pay  a  decent  price." 

"Certainly — yes,  of  course.  That  is,  I  am  ready  ...  to 
discuss  ..." 

"Very  well,  then.  I  hope  the  discussion  will  be  brief.  Let 
me  make  it  clear  at  the  start  that  my  terms  are  fixed,  and  not 
intended  as  a  basis  for  negotiation.  You  can,  of  course, 
refuse  them  if  you  prefer,  but  I  must  insist  on  the  matter  being 
settled  quickly.  I  need  not  tell  you,  I  suppose,  that  I  bought 
up  all  the  wool  I  could  last  spring,  when  I  realized  that  prices 
would  be  exceptionally  high — your  books  have  no  doubt  made 
that  evident  to  yourself  already.  I  am  willing  to  let  you 
have  all  my  wool  at  a  reasonable  price,  as  I  know  that  many 
of  the  peasants  hereabout  are  in  your  debt,  and  that  you  are 
anxious  for  a  settlement.  I  myself  am  not  in  your  debt.  I 
do  not  owe  you  money,  and  certainly  very  little  consideration. 
My  peasants,  on  the  other  hand — you  must  excuse  my  calling 
them  'my  peasants,'  we  are  linked,  you  know,  by  friendship 
and  common  interests — my  peasants  owe  you  money,  and  I  am 
willing  to  offer  my  wool  in  clesyance  of  their  debts,  or  as 


38  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

much  of  their  debts  as  it  will  cover.  The  debt  will  thus  be 
transferred  to  a  creditor  who  can  perhaps  afford  to  give  them 
longer  credit.  You,  I  take  it,  are  chiefly  anxious  to  make 
money. ' ' 

Bjarni  sat  with  downcast  eyes.  The  word  of  "the  King" 
cut  him  like  a  knife.  He  realized  well  enough  that  his  busi- 
ness at  Hofsf  jordur  would  be  entirely  ruined.  Up  till  now 
he  had  cherished  a  faint  hope  that  0rlygur  would  spare  him, 
if  only  he  humbled  himself  sufficiently.  At  length  he 
realized,  that  though  0rlygur  had  mercifully  saved  him  from 
absolute  ruin,  and  reduced  his  loss  by  paying  the  farmers' 
debts,  he  would  never  have  another  customer  unless  he  could 
succeed  in  winning  him  over  again.  And  the  present  reception 
did  not  seem  to  offer  any  great  hope  of  re-establishing  that 
connection. 

Yet  he  still  clung  to  the  hope  that  by  absolute  humility  he 
might  work  on  0rlygur  to  extend  his  leniency  still 
further.  Therefore,  without  a  murmur,  he  agreed  to 
0rlygur's  terms.  He  could  not  reconcile  himself  to  the  idea 
of  leaving  the  place  and  throwing  up  the  excellent  position 
he  had  toiled  and  planned  so  many  years  to  gain.  He  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  all  was  absolutely  lost  through  his  own 
stupidity. 

His  blood  boiled  at  the  thought,  but  he  dared  not  show  it ; 
his  fate  depended  now  on  0rlygur's  next  move.  And  mean- 
while, his  little  cunning  soul  was  on  the  alert  for  any 
opportunity  of  showing  "the  King"  what  a  loyal  subject  he 
could  be,  and  would,  if  only  he  might  be  forgiven  this  once. 

Nevertheless,  his  heart  was  filled  with  a  vindictive  hatred — 
first  and  foremost  hatred  of  0rlygur,  then  of  Sera  Daniel  and 
the  rest  of  the  community.  Fate  had  been  cruel  to  him,  and 
was  mocking  him  into  the  bargain — the  one  consolation  about 
the  whoie  affair  was  that  things  seemed  as  bad  at  least,  if  not 
worse,  for  Sera  Daniel. 

Had  Bjarni,  the  trader,  but  known  that  0rlygur  a  Borg  was 
at  that  very  moment  filled  with  loathing  for  the  servility  he 
displayed,  he  would  have  given  vent  to  a  burst  of  rage  on  the 
spot — and  it  might  have  saved  him,  as  nothing  else  could. 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  39 

0rlygur  certainly  felt  sorry  for  the  fellow;  he  knew  how 
much  Bjarni  had  at  stake,  and  how  harmless  and  altogether 
inferior  he  really  was.  He  decided,  therefore,  to  spare  him, 
if  he  could,  by  unreasonable  demands,  lead  him  to  give  up  his 
servile  attitude  and  lose  his  temper  in  honest  fashion. 

"Well,  then,  my  horses  and  men  are  at  your  disposal  for 
carrying  the  wool,  if  you  wish  to  buy  it — the  price  of  trans- 
port, of  course,  being  in  addition.  I  can  let  you  have  fifty 
horses  for  the  work,  so  it  will  not  take  long.  The  price — well, 
it  will  simplify  matters  to  fix  one  price  for  all  wool  of  the 
same  colour.  That  is  to  say:  one  Krone  for  all  white,  and 
half  a  Krone  for  the  rest." 

Bjarni  turned  pale ;  for  the  moment  he  found  it  difficult  to 
control  his  features.  He  looked  at  0rlygur  with  the  eyes  of 
a  wounded  dog.  But  0rlygur  seemed  not  to  notice  his  im- 
ploring gaze,  and  went  on  carelessly: 

"Well,  what  do  you  say?     Is  that  fair?" 

"Yes,"  stammered  Bjarni  in  reply.  Then,  quickly,  and 
with  an  assumption  of  easiness,  he  added: 

"Well,  then,  that  is  settled.  Tomorrow?"  He  nodded  as 
he  said  the  last  word;  he  felt  that  the  moment  had  come  to 
change  the  tone  of  the  conversation.  This  cheerful  accept- 
ance on  his  part  of  an  absurd  price  was  a  friendly  hand,  which 
he  expected  0rlygur  would  grasp  at  once. 

The  effect,  however,  was  contrary  to  what  he  had  looked 
for.  0rlygur  seemed  to  take  it  as  a  personal  affront ;  he  rose 
quickly,  and  said  in  an  angry  voice : 

"Very  well,  then!" 

The  two  visitors  also  rose,  and  without  a  word  all  three 
walked  from  the  room. 

Sera  Daniel  also  was  highly  dissatisfied  with  the  result  of 
his  visit.  Both  he  and  Bjarni  were  in  a  state  of  painful 
suspense  with  regard  to  the  future ;  they  could  not  persuade 
themselves  that  this  was  0rlygur's  last  word  in  the  matter. 
It  was  too  dismal  a  failure  for  them  to  accept  it  as  final. 
Sera  Daniel  had  hoped  that  the  threatening  cloud  of  0rlygur's 
displeasure,  which  had  darkened  his  work  and  prospects  all 
through  the  summer,  would  be  dispelled.  He  fretted  inwardly 


40  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

over  every  word  he  had  said,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
spoken.  Bjarni,  too,  had  cherished  similar  hopes;  an 
amicable  settlement  meant  even  more  to  him  than  to  the  priest. 

As  if  by  common  instinct,  both  men  hesitated  to  leave ;  their 
manner  showed  plainly  that  there  was  more  in  their  minds. 
But  0rlygnr  pretended  not  to  understand  their  anxiety,  and 
left  it  to  them  to  make  any  further  move. 

Meantime,  they  had  reached  the  stables.  And  here  they 
stopped.  0rlygur  seemed  only  waiting  for  them  to  take  their 
leave;  but  the  visitors  still  hoped  for  some  opening — some- 
thing to  happen,  they  did  not  quite  know  what. 

Then  suddenly  the  quivering  notes  of  a  violin  w.ere  heard. 
Here  was  a  welcome  excuse  for  delaying  their  departure. 
0rlygur  was  listening  with  delight,  as  so  often  before,  to  his 
son's  playing;  for  a  while  all  three  stood  motionless. 

0rlygur  smiled;  a  smile  that  covered,  perhaps,  both  his 
admiration  and  his  aversion — the  two  conflicting  feelings 
which  Ormarr  's  playing  always  seemed  to  awaken  at  the  same 
time. 

Then  Sera  Daniel    spoke — simply  and  naturally: 

"How  beautiful!"  But  at  the  same  moment  he  reflected 
that  he  ought  to  know  0rlygur's  character  better  than  to  say 
things  like  that.  And  by  way  of  altering  the  imDression  of 
his  words,  he  added,  in  an  entirely  different  tone : 

"There  is  the  making  of  a  fortune  in  that  music." 

0rlygur  a  Borg  did  not  grasp  his  meaning.  And  though 
he  knew  that  Sera  Dani,el  would  never  dare  to  make  fun  of 
him,  "the  King,"  to  his  face,  he  was  on  his  guard.  He  looked 
at  the  speaker  with  a  glance  of  cold  inquirv. 

Sera  Daniel  went  on: 

"In  foreign  countries  there  are  artists  who  make  fortunes 
by  playing  the  violin.  I  have  often  wished  that  I  were  an 
artist  like  that  ...  it  must  be  wonderful  to  travel  from  one 
great  city  to  another  and  be  rich.  I  have  heard  such  men  in 
Copenhagen,  when  I  was  studying  there." 

When  0rlygur  a  Borg  reailized  that  the  priest's  words 
pointed,  not  to  impossible  realms  of  fancy,  but  to  a  world  of 
beautiful  reality,  the  look  in  his  eyes  changed.  So  strange 


ORMARR  ^RLYGSSON  41 

was  his  glance,  so  complete  the  alteration,  that  Sera  Daniel 
flushed  with  pleasure  at  the  effect  of  his  words. 

For  a  while  0rlygur  stared  straight  before  him,  as  if  in 
thought.  Great  things  were  passing  in  his  mind.  Where 
others  would  deliberate  at  length,  0rlygur  a  Borg  was 
capable  of  taking  in  a  situation  in  a  moment.  He  was  think- 
ing of  Ormarr  's  and  his  brother 's  future,  and  with  his  wonted 
respect  for  sudden  impulses,  which  he  was  almost  inclined 
to  attribute  to  divine  influence,  he  made  up  his  mind  quickly. 

He  turned  to  the  priest. 

"While  I  think  of  it,  Sera  Daniel,  there  is  a  matter  I  have 
been  wanting  to  talk  over  with  you  for  some  time.  Are  you 
going  back  home  by  the  shorter  road?  Then  I  will  go  with 
you  part  of  the  way. ' ' 

The  trader  took  the  words  as  a  hint  to  himself  to  disappear. 
Bidding  good-bye  to  0rlygur  and  the  priest,  he  rode  off  with 
a  troubled  mind.  This  was  worse  than  all;  an  understanding 
between  0rlygur  and  Sera  Daniel  left  him  utterly  hopeless. 

Sera  Daniel,  on  the  other  hand,  was  delighted  at  the  honour 
conferred  on  him  by  the  King  of  Borg.  Leading  his  horse, 
he  walked  down  the  road  with  0rlygur,  waiting  for  what  was 
to  come. 

0rlygur  had  made  no  mistake  in  calculating  that  the 
fright  he  had  given  the  priest  would  suffice  to  keep  him  from 
any  further  attempts  at  revolt.  After  that  lesson  in  the  un- 
written law  of  the  parish,  Sera  Daniel  would  be  ready  to 
serve  him  to  the  utmost,  if  need  should  arise.  And  as  things 
were  turning  out  now,  the  priest  might  well  be  useful  to  him, 
in  regard  to  the  future  of  his  sons.  0rlygur  determined  to 
make  peace. 

They  walked  on  for  a  while  in  silence.  Then  0rlygur 
spoke : 

''Sera  Daniel — would  you  undertake  to  teach  Ormarr 
Danish  ?  He  knows  a  little,  and  it  would  be  as  well  for  him 
to  improve  on  it  before  he  goes  away.  He  will  be  leaving  for 
Copenhagen  this  autumn." 

Sera  Daniel  was  almost  moved. 

"A  pleasure  indeed — a  very  great  pleasure.    I  am  glad  to 


42  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

hear  he  is  going.  There  is  a  great  future  in  store  for  him — of 
that  I  feel  sure.  I  have  rarely  heard  any  one  play  so  well ;  he 
seems  far  in  advance  of  his  age.  You  should  send  him  to  the 
Conservatoire  at  Copenhagen — they  will  make  a  great  artist 
of  him  there. ' ' 

"Yes — or  to  some  eminent  teacher." 

"At  first — yes,  of  course." 

"From  first  to  last,"  0rlygur  corrected,  with  a  smile. 
"He  must  have  the  very  best  teacher  throughout.  I  am  go- 
ing to  give  him  every  possible  chance.  And  with  regard  to  his 
stay  in  Copenhagen,  and  matters  generally,  perhaps  you  could 
give  him  some  hints.  ..." 

They  discussed  the  matter  at  length.  And  when  Sera 
Daniel  rode  home,  his  fickle  heart  swelled  with  love  and 
admiration  for  0rlygur  the  Rich,  who  had  become  his 
gracious  patron  after  the  long,  dreary  months  of  enmity. 

That  evening  when  Ormarr  had  driven  the  sheep  into 
the  fold,  he  saw  his  father  coming  slowly  towards  him,  and 
realized  that  0rlygur  wished  to  speak  to  him. 

The  two  sat  down  on  the  grassy  wall  of  the  paddock. 

"Bjarni  Jonsson  has  been  up  to  buy  the  wool." 

0rlygur  spoke  without  any  sign  of  triumph  in  his  voice, 
and  Ormarr  evinced  no  excitement  at  the  information.  To 
both  it  seemed  only  natural  and  inevitable  that  the  matter 
should  have  ended  thus. 

"Sera  Daniel  came  with  him." 

After  this  there  was  a  pause.  Then  0rlygur  looked  his  son 
in  the  eyes.  "Ormarr,"  he  went  on,  "I  have  something  im- 
portant to  say  to  you.  You  are  growing  up  now,  and  we  must 
think  of  your  future.  Not  yours  alone,  but  that  of  your 
brother  and  the  estate  as  well.  In  short,  it  concerns  Borg. 
Have  you  any  wish  to  take  over  the  management  of  the 
place?" 

"I  don't  know.  ..."  Ormarr  gazed  thoughtfully  before 
him. 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  been  thinking  of  today. 
Sera  Daniel  tells  me  that  there  are  men  in  foreign  countries 


OBMARB  0RLYGSSON  43 

whose  whole  work  in  life  consists  in  playing  the  violin.  You 
understand,  of  course,  that  first  of  all  they  must  learn  to 
master  it  thoroughly.  They  are  taught  at  schools,  or  by 
private  teachers.  Would  you  care  to  do  the  same — to  learn 
to  play  properly — rules  and  notes  and  everything?" 

' '  That  means — going  abroad  ? ' ' 

Ormarr's  voice  trembled,  and  he  turned  a  little  pale.  The 
golden  bird  of  fortune  and  adventure  flashed  into  the  vision 
of  his  mind. 

"Yes.  I  spoke  to  Sera  Daniel  about  teaching  you  English 
as  well  as  Danish.  While  you  are  in  Copenhagen,  you  might 
find  time  to  study  other  languages,  without  neglecting  your 
music.  Languages  are  always  useful:  if  you  become  a  great 
artist,  you  may  have  to  travel  in  many  countries,  play  your 
violin  everywhere.  Anyhow,  you  shall  have  the  chance. 
Perhaps  your  liking  for  it  may  not  last,  or  you  may  find  you 
have  not  talent  enough.  If  so,  you  can  come  back  to  Iceland 
again — to  Borg  if  you  care  to.  What  do  you  think — would 
you  like  to  try?" 

"Yes,  father — if  you  will  let  me.     It  would  be  wonderful." 

"I  pray  God  I  may  be  allowed  to  live  a  few  years  more. 
If  you  come  back  here,  you  will  still  have  your  birthright  to 
the  estate.  But  if  you  prefer  to  give  up  your  claim,  I  will 
see  that  your  brother  is  brought  up  to  take  over  the  place  him- 
self. The  next  few  years  will  show  what  is  best." 

Ormarr  could  not  sleep  that  night.  He  lay  weaving  dreams 
about  his  future. 

To  him,  it  all  appeared  one  bright,  sunny  vision.  He 
pictured  life  as  one  grand  triumphal  procession.  He  knew 
that  the  country  he  was  going  to  abounded  in  forests  of 
bright-hued  beech  and  dark  pine  woods;  with  lovely 
orchards,  where  ripe  fruit  hung  on  the  trees  ready  for  one 
to  pick  and  eat.  He  had  read  of  Danish  gardens,  where 
roses  and  lilac  filled  the  air  with  their  scent. 

He  counted  the  days  now  till  he  should  be  able  to  look 
with  his  own  eyes  on  palaces  he  had  known  hitherto  only 
from  pictures  in  books — real  palaces  of  kings!  They  would 


44  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

be  no  longer  castles  in  the  air  to  him,  but  real;  grand  piles 
of  solid  stone  and  mortar.  He  could  walk  through  their 
halls,  breathe  the  air  of  bygone  centuries  that  hung  there 
still;  could  touch  with  his  hands  the  very  walls  that  had 
stood  there  for  hundreds  of  years. 

He  painted  for  himself  a  future  like  that  of  one  of  the 
old  Icelandic  bards.  He  would  play  to  kings  and  nobles. 
There  was  a  lust  of  travel  in  his  blood,  of  wandering 
through  life  by  the  royal  road  of  glory  and  fame.  It  was 
almost  painful  to  remember  that  he  had  ever  thought  of 
living  all  his  days  at  Borg,  as  his  ancestors  had  done. 

The  great  world  called  to  him,  and  every  fibre  in  him  an- 
swered to  the  call.  He  knew  that  there,  where  he  was  go- 
ing, were  wonderful  machines  contrived  to  do  the  work  of 
men.  He  had  never  been  able  to  think  of  such  machines  as 
really  inanimate  things;  he  longed  to  see  with  his  own  eyes 
the  arms,  hands,  and  fingers  they  must  surely  possess.  Yet, 
at  the  same  time,  the  thought  of  it  made  his  flesh  creep. 

Think — to  fill  a  room  with  light  by  the  mere  turning  of  a 
switch!  And  to  talk  with  people  through  a  wire — which  he 
imagined  as  hollow.  And  there  were  places  where  con- 
jurers worked  miracles,  and  acrobats  performed  impossible 
feats;  clowns  jested  and  played  tricks.  .  .  .  And  gardens 
filled  with  cages  of  strange  beasts  from  countries  even  far- 
ther off.  ... 

All  these  and  many  other  things  which  he  had  read  of,  and 
grown  to  consider  as  accessible  only  to  a  favoured  few,  were 
now  to  be  part  of  his  own  surroundings  in  his  daily  life.  He 
would  live  in  a  city  with  streets  like  deep  chasms  between  un- 
scalable cliffs — cave-hollowed  cliffs  peopled  with  human  be- 
ings, instead  of  giants  and  goblins.  He  would  go  to  theatres, 
where  actors  seemed  to  kill  one  another,  and  thunder,  light- 
ning, and  snow  could  be  brought  into  play  within  four  walls. 
He  would  travel  endless  miles  in  machine-driven  cars  that 
raced  along  over  rails  of  steel.  .  .  . 

Ormarr  lay  in  his  dark  room,  his  eyes  wide  open,  letting 
his  fancy  paint  all  manner  of  visions  in  the  richest  colours. 
His  mind  was  overwhelmed  by  a  turmoil  of  new  sensations. 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  45 

He  tried  to  recall,  one  after  another,  all  the  pictures  he 
had  seen  of  things  in  foreign  lands;  even  to  portraits  of 
celebrities,  of  jockeys  galloping  over  turf,  and  sordid  litho- 
graphs with  impossible  figures  in  ridiculous  postures,  such  as 
he  had  seen  stuck  up  in  the  local  stores. 

A  fever  of  anticipation  burned  in  his  veins-  And  when 
at  last,  towards  morning,  he  dropped  off  into  a  broken  sleep, 
he  was  still  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  the  impressions  he  had 
conjured  up  while  awake.  They  vexed  him  now;  he  found 
himself  being  thrown  from  cars  that  raced  away  from  him 
at  full  speed,  losing  his  way  in  gloomy  streets  and  labyrin- 
thine passages,  being  snatched  up  by  the  steel  arms  of  strange 
machines  and  crushed  to  pieces;  standing  with  one  end  of  a 
wire  between  his  teeth  and  vainly  trying  to  speak  to  a  famous 
man  at  the  other  end ;  he  switched  on  a  light  and  set  the 
house  on  fire,  and  was  only  saved  from  being  burned  to  death 
by  waking  to  find  the  sun  shining  full  in  his  face. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHEN  a  youth  is  thrown  from  the  realm  of  fancy 
and  solitude  into  a  world  of  realities,  one  of  two 
things  takes  place:  either  a  process  of  reaction 
sets  in,  and  he  fortifies  his  soul  in  some  faith  or  tradition;  or 
he  clutches  greedily  at  life,  becomes  intoxicated  by  it,  and 
loses  his  foothold.  Whatever  happens  to  him  depends  less 
upon  strength  of  character  than  upon  chance. 

In  Ormarr's  case,  reality  fell  short  of  his  expectation  in 
some  respects,  and  in  others  exceeded  it.  He  felt,  also,  as  if 
he  were  born  anew,  entering  upon  an  existence  based  on  new 
principles. 

With  all  that  he  had  looked  forward  to  most  keenly  he  was 
frankly  disappointed.  On  the  other  hand,  he  found  an  or- 
der of  things,  of  people  and  their  actions,  so  alien  to  his  own 
mind  and  development  that  he  felt  himself  an  outsider,  uncul- 
tured and  inferior.  It  seemed  to  him  then,  that  the  only 
possible  way  to  make  up  for  lost  time  was  to  fling  himself 
headlong  into  this  human  maelstrom  and  swim  for  dear  life. 
And  before  he  was  himself  aware  of  it,  he  was  floating  with 
the  tide.  He  soon  proved  to  have  all  the  requisite  qualifica- 
tions for  drifting  so  on  the  waters  of  life;  he  had  means 
enough,  and  withal  a  pleasant  manner,  with  a  certain  air  of 
distinction,  gay  and  yet  self-possessed 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  consider  whither  he  was  drifting ; 
there  was  no  time  to  think.  That  he  saw  no  land  ahead  or 
to  either  side  did  not  trouble  him  in  the  least.  Life  was 
pleasant  enough — and  since  its  essential  aim  seemed  to  be 
that  of  making  it  pleasant,  why  trouble  one's  head  about 
anything  ? 

Fortunely,  there  was  always  one  plank  at  hand  to  which 
he  could  turn  for  safety  in  case  of  need — unless  he  wilfully 

46 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  47 

thrust  it  from  him.  And  as  this  resource  in  itself  possessed 
an  extreme  fascination  for  him — the  chance  of  becoming  a 
great  artist,  a  world-famed  master — Ormarr  never  quite  lost 
touch  of  it,  though  he  found  it  at  times  somewhat  burdensome, 
a  check  upon  his  natural  movements  towards  pleasure  and 
enjoyment. 

His  consistency  in  this  respect  was  largely  due  to  the  per- 
sonality of  his  teacher,  Abel  Grahl,  who  had  taken  a  kind  and 
fatherly  interest  in  the  boy  from  their  first  meeting.  On  the 
day  after  his  arrival  at  Copenhagen,  Ormarr  set  out  from 
his  hotel  at  a  very  early  hour,  and  went  in  search  of  Grahl. 
Sera  Daniel  had  instructed  him  to  seek  out  this  man  and  not 
rest  until  he  had  persuaded  him  to  become  his  teacher. 

"Your  career  may  depend  upon  it,"  were  the  priest's  part- 
ing words. 

Abel  Grahl  was  an  elderly  man,  and  life  had  used  him 
hardly.  At  twenty,  he  had  stood  on  the  threshold  of  fame: 
his  first  appearance  as  a  violinist,  in  London,  had  created  an 
unusual  stir.  Offers  of  engagements  came  to  him  in  plenty, 
but  the  day  before  he  was  to  start  on  a  tour,  embracing  the 
principal  cities  of  the  world,  he  had  managed  to  hurt  his 
finger  slightly  while  out  boating  with  some  friends.  Blood- 
poisoning  set  in,  and  the  finger  had  to  be  amputated.  Then 
for  three  years  he  was  lost  to  the  world ;  his  friends  and  rela- 
tions believed  him  dead.  Suddenly  he  reappeared  in  his  na- 
tive town  of  Copenhagen,  a  silent,  retiring  man ;  no  one  ever 
learned  where  or  how  he  had  spent  the  intervening  years. 
Even  his  intimates  refrained  from  asking,  partly  out  of  re- 
gard for  his  grief,  partly  for  fear  of  reopening  some  trouble 
not  yet  healed.  He  made  his  living  as  a  teaclher  of  music 
especially  with  the  violin;  but  his  pupils  were  few,  since  he 
mercilessly  rejected  all  save  those  who  showed  unusual 
promise. 

He  lived  a  solitary  life,  in  a  suite  of  rooms  badly  in  need 
of  repair.  The  landlord  had  given  him  permission  to  remove 
the  inner  partitions,  and  turn  the  whole  place  into  one  big 
studio;  the  kitchen  he  used  as  a  bedroom. 

Grahl  was  not  in  the  best  of  tempers  on  being  awakened 


48  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

at  six  in  the  morning  by  a  continued  and  vigorous  ringing  at 
the  bell.  But  at  the  sight  of  his  visitor,  a  lad  in  ill-fitting 
homespun  clothes,  with  a  calfskin  bag  tucked  under  his  arm 
(Grahl  at  once  divined  that  it  contained  a  violin),  he  found 
some  difficulty  in  keeping  his  countenance.  He  looked  at  the 
boy  with  a  faint,  good-humoured  smile.- 

Ormarr  endeavoured  to  explain,  in  very  imperfect  Danish, 
the  object  of  his  visit. 

The  old  man  burst  out  laughing.  Then,  noticing  the  boy's 
confusion,  he  asked  him  in,  and  patted  him  encouragingly  on 
the  shoulder. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  come  all  the  way  from  Ice- 
land to  learn  the  violin?  What  did  you  say  your  name 
was?" 

"Ormarr,  son  of  0rlygur  a  Borg." 

' '  I  see,  Ormarr  a  Borg,  then, ' ' 

"Yes,  Ormarr  0rlygsson." 

"Ormarr  0rlygsson.  And  how  did  you  manage  to  find 
me?" 

"It  was  quite  easy.  I  had  the  address  written  on  a  paper, 
and  asked  the  way." 

"Yes,  yes — but  I  mean,  who  told  you  to  come  to  me?" 

"Sera  Daniel — the  priest.  I  was  to  come  to  you  and  get 
you  to  teach  me — you  and  no  other.  He  said  my  career 
might  depend  upon  it.  And  he  said  if  you  refused,  if  you 
sent  me  away  once  or  twice  or  more,  I  was  to  try  again." 

"H'm.  Seems  clear  enough.  And  you  look  as  if  you  were 
the  sort  to  do  it.  Well,  let  me  hear  what  you  can  do  with  that 
instrument  of  yours." 

Ormarr  took  out  his  violin.  He  was  visibly  nervous,  and 
it  took  him  some  time  to  tune  up. 

Abel  Grahl  could  not  help  remarking  to  himself  that  the 
boy  seemed  awkward — and  perhaps  he  did  not  even  know 
his  notes.  Anyhow,  he  refrained  for  the  moment  from 
further  questioning. 

At  last  Ormarr  ran  his  bow  across  the  strings,  put  down 
his  bow  and  violin,  took  off  his  coat,  and  rolled  up  his  sleeves 
to  the  elbow. 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  49 

Grahl  watched  him,  making  no  sign.  He  was  rather 
surprised  to  find  himself  really  interested,  and  waited  im- 
patiently for  the!  boy  to  begin. 

As  Ormarr  took  up  his  instrument  again,  the  old  man 
asked : 

"How  old  did  you  say  you  were?" 

Ormarr  hesitated.     "Fifteen,"  he  said  at  length. 

Grahl  shook  his  head  in  despair.     Then  he  checked  himself. 

"Well,  well,  we  shall  see.     Go  on  now,  if  you  are  ready." 

Ormarr  began  to  play,  without  watching  the  other's  face. 
Hei  did  not  see  how  the  man 's  expression  changed  from  mere 
resignation  to  intense  feeling,  that  drove  all  the  blood  from 
his  face.  Now  and  again  he  frowned,  and  started  slightly, 
but  repressed  himself,  and  left  Ormarr  to  finish  at  his  will. 

Ormarr  played  for  ten  minutes.  At  the  last  stroke  of  the 
bow,  Grahl  leapt  to  his  feet. 

"Who  wrote  that?" 

"It's — it's  only  about  a  sunset." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  where  did  you  get  hold  of  it — the  tune?" 

"I  made  it  up  myself." 

Grahl  stared  at  him,  but  the  boy  never  flinched.  No, 
those  eyes  could  not  lie ! 

"What  else  can  you  play?" 

"There's  all  the  songs  they  used  to  sing  at  home.  And 
the  hymns  from  church." 

"Can  you  play  at  sight?" 

Ormarr  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"I  mean,  do  you  know  the  written  notes?" 

"No;  I  was  never. taught."  Ormarr  felt  crushed  at  the 
confession. 

For  fully  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  kept  in  suspense; 
it  was  like  waiting  for  the  summons  to  execution. 

Abel  Grahl  walked  up  and  down.  Now  and  again  he 
stopped  full  in  front  of  the  boy,  scrutinizing  him  from  head 
to  foot.  Then  he  shook  his  head  as  if  in  dismissal,  turned 
away  abruptly,  and  stood  for  a  while  at  the  window,  whis- 
tling softly  to  himself;  came  back  and  stared  at  Ormarr  once 
more,  looking  hard  into  the  dark,  glowing  eyes  that  seemed 


50  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

to  have  grown  dim.  Who  could  say  how  much  it  might 
mean  to  this  lad  if  he  sent  him  away?  He  felt,  too,  that 
those  eyes  could  express  something  more  than  despair. 

He  felt  himself  drawn  toward  this  child  of  nature  who 
had  been  flung  at  him,  at  it  were,  like  a  ball,  from  hundreds 
of  miles  away— if  he  did  not  take  it  but  threw  it  back, 
would  it  land  safely,  or  would  it  be  lost  in  the  sea? 

At  last  he  spoke,  though  he  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind. 

"It  is  a  difficult  thing  to  study — and  it  means  years  of 
work.  Also,  it  will  cost  a  great  deal  of  money.  Where  are 
you  to  get  that  from?" 

"From  my  father." 

"And  what  is  your  father?" 

"A  farmer." 

"Is  he  rich?" 

"Yes." 

"What  is  he  worth,  about?" 

"He  owns  all  Borg,  and  .  .  ." 

"I  mean,  how  many  thousand  .  .  .?" 

"Three  thousand." 

"Three  thousand— is  that  all?" 

"Yes.  No  one  in  Iceland  has  more  than  three  thousand 
sheep.  He  has  more  than  any  one  else  there." 

"Sheep — I  see.    A  biggish  place,  then.     Many  horses?" 

"I  don't  know  how  many  exactly.  There  are  many — 
stodhross." 

' ' Stodhross— what 's  that  ? " 

"Horses  that  live  out  on  the  hills.  But  we've  a  hundred 
and  twenty  at  home,  on  the  place." 

"The  devil  you  have.     And  how  many  cows?" 

"About  a  hundred  most  times." 

"Do  you  know  any  one  here  in  Copenhagen?" 

"No.  But  the  priest,  he  gave  me  a  letter  to  a  man  I  was 
to  ask  to  keep  my  money  for  me,  if  you  did  not  care  to  be 
troubled  with  it." 

"Have  you  much  with  you  now?" 

"I  have  a  thousand  Kroner  in  my  pocket-book,  and  a  few 
small  notes  in  my  purse." 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  51 

"H'm.  I  suppose  you  can  look  after  your  money  all  right 
yourself  ? ' ' 

"Oh  yes,  I  have  it  ..."    He  thrust  a  hand  into  his  pocket. 

"No — I  must  have  left  it  under  my  pillow." 

' '  Under  your  pillow — where  ? ' ' 

"At  the  place  where  I  slept." 

"What  on  earth — Here,  we  must  go  along  at  once.  Put 
on  your  coat — no,  never  mind  the  violin.  Where  are  you 
staying  ?  What  street  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know  what  street  it  is." 

"But  good  heavens,  child — the  name  of  the  hotel,  then?" 

"Hotel  H ,  it  is  called.  Sera  Daniel  told  me  to  go  there 

the  first  night." 

They  reached  the  street,  and  Grahl  hurried  on  ahead  to 
where  some  cabs  were  standing.  Hailing  one,  he  gave  the 
address,  hurried  the  boy  in,  and  followed  himself. 

In  the  vestibule  of  the  hotel  they  were  met  by  the  porter, 
who  advanced  with  a  discreet  smile,  and  handed  a  pocket-book 
to  Ormarr. 

"You  don't  seem  to  care  much  for  your  money,  sir.  The 
maid  found  this  little  sum  under  your  pillow." 

The  little  episode  was  not  perhaps,  in  itself,  the  decisive 
factor  in  establishing  the  ultimate  relationship  between 
Ormarr  and  G-rahl.  But  it  certainly  did  much  to  link  them 
closer,  and  from  that  time  forth,  Grahl  assisted  the  young 
Icelander  in  many  other  ways,  apart  from  merely  teaching 
him  the  violin. 

Ormarr  succeeded  from  the  first  in  winning  the  old  man's 
affection,  and  making  him  interested  in  his  career.  He  was 
a  constant  source  of  surprise  to  his  teacher.  First  and  fore- 
most, there  was  his  sudden  transformation  from  chrysalis  to 
butterfly — from  a  peasant  lad  to  a  man-about-town. 

And  Ormarr  caused  his  teacher  grave  anxiety  during 
those  years.  But  he  never  betrayed  the  confidence  the  old 
man  had  shown  at  first.  And  in  point  of  musical  develop- 
ment he  surpassed  all  that  Grahl  had  ever  hoped  for. 

By  the  tenth  winter,  Grahl  considered  his  pupil  as  perfect 
at  least  as  he  himself  had  been  when  he  had  first  appeared  in 


52  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

public.  All  that  was  needed  now  was  to  introduce  him  to 
an  audience.  The  day  for  his  debut  was  fixed,  and  the  large 
room  at  the  Concert  Hall  engaged. 

For  some  time  past,  whispers  had  been  current  in  musical 
circles  about  Abel  Grahl's  wonderful  pupil.  All  were  eager 
to  hear  him,  and  every  seat  in  the  big  hall  was  taken  far  in 
advance. 

Ormarr  had  rooms  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  looking 
out  over  the  Sound.  In  course  of  time,  he  had  managed  to 
get  the  apartments  furnished  to  his  taste.  The  walls  were 
hung  with  rugs,  an  enormous  divan  occupied  the  centre  of 
the  room,  a  few  small  tables  stood  about  here  and  there,  and 
the  four  big  chairs  were  packed  with  cushions.  The  divan 
served  as  a  bed  at  night ;  in  the  daytime  it  was  covered  with 
a  splendid  Persian  rug.  Black,  white,  and  brown  sheepskins 
were  spread  on  the  floor,  and  in  front  of  the  divan  was  flung 
the  pelt  of  a  huge  white  bear. 

Not  a  single  picture  was  to  be  seen-.  But  on  the  walls, 
hidden  behind  the  hangings,  Ormarr  had  placed  large  re- 
productions of  well-known  portraits  of  great  composers. 
And  when  playing,  he  would  uncover  the  picture  of  that 
particular  master  with  whose  work  he  was  occupied  for  the 
moment. 

On  the  day  before  his  first  concert,  Ormarr  was  resting, 
fully  dressed,  on  the  divan.  He  was  smoking;  a  bottle  of 
wine  and  a  glass  stood  within  reach  on  a  small  table. 

He  had  been  out  for  his  usual  morning  walk.  But  for  the 
last  three  hours  he  had  not  moved.  It  was  now  drawing  to- 
wards twilight.  His  glance  moved  idly  from  one  window  to 
the  other,  following  the  race  of  clouds  against  the  back- 
ground of  a  dull  blue  sky. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Languidly  Ormarr  rose 
to  open.  He  recognized  the  voice  of  his  friend,  Aage 
Blad. 

Save  for  Grahl,  Ormarr 's  only  intimate  friend  was  the 
young  poet,  Aage  Blad;  the  two  were  constant  companions. 
Blad's  earnest  love  of  life  had  endeared  him  to  Ormarr,  and 


OBMARR  0RLYGSSON  53 

though  the  latter,  true  to  his  adopted  role  of  insincerity, 
often  made  fun  of  his  friend's  seriousness,  the  poet  had  soon 
realized  that  it  was  not  meant,  and  as  a  rule  paid  no  heed  to 
it.  But  if  ever  he  found  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  Ormarr 
always  relapsed  into  silence,  and  his  friend  understood  that 
this  was  his  way  of  asking  forgiveness. 

Blad  glanced  at  Ormarr 's  face  as  he  entered,  and  gathered 
at  once  that  his  friend  was  not  in  the  best  of  spirits.  He 
shook  hands  in  silence. 

Ormarr  flung  himself  down  on  the  divan  once  more,  leav- 
ing his  visitor  to  make  himself  at  home.  Blad  moved  up  a 
chair,  and  the  two  friends  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while, 
watching  each  other. 

"Nervous?"  queried  Blad  at  last. 

"Wish  I  were!" 

"Curious  thing  to  wish.  Thank  your  stars  you're  as  cool 
about  it  as  you  are.  Anything  wrong?" 

"Oh,  everything." 

"Oh,  that's  no  trifle,  anyway." 

Silence. 

' '  I  tell  you  what,  Ormarr,  I  shan  't  feel  comfortable  myself 
until  this  concert's  over.  Honestly,  I'm  getting  quite  fever- 
ish about  it.  I've  never  been  so  excited  about  one  of  my 
own  things  coming  out — not  even  my  first  book." 

"No  need  for  you  to  get  excited  that  I  can  see." 

"No  need  at  all — you're  right,  of  course.  It's  bound  to 
go  off  all  right." 

"On  the  contrary — there's  everything  to  be  anxious  about. 
Everything — everything.  Oh,  well,  hang  it  all — have  an- 
other drink." 

Ormarr  threw  himself  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Aage  Blad  sat  watching  him;  there  was  a  dull,  resigned 
expression  about  the  corners  of  the  mouth ;  the  forehead  was 
already  deeply  lined.  There  was  strength  as  well  as  weak- 
ness in  the  face,  he  thought.  "A  strange  fellow,"  he  told 
himself. 

They  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while.  Then,  without  open- 
ing his  eyes,  Ormarr  said: 


54  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"It  is  a  long  time  since  I  saw  my  home.  Funny  thing, 
not  feeling  home-sick  all  these  years.  Can't  understand  it 
just  now.  I  never  longed  for  home  till  this  winter.  As 
soon  as  the  summer  comes  I  must  go  back.  Like  to  come 
too?" 

"H'm — I  don't  know.  Iceland — the  very  name  of  it 
makes  me  shiver.  Anyhow,  you'll  have  to  redeem  that  fur 
coat  you  gave  me — extravagant  person  that  you  are." 

"But  it's  not  so  cold  at  home.  Not  in  the  summer,  at 
any  rate.  The  coldest  thing  about  Iceland  is  its  name.  And 
the  nights  there — so  wonderfully  calm  and  light  they  are  in 
spring.  .  .  .  It's  a  long  time  to  wait  till  the  spring.  I  wish 
I  were  back  home  again  now.  I've  never  seen  a  sky  so  blue 
and  deep  as  there.  Before  I  came  to  Denmark  I  had  an 
idea  that  in  a  flat  country  one  would  see  more  of  the  sky 
than  at  home,  with  all  the  mountains  and  their  shadows. 
But  then  the  mountains  are  so  far  away.  And  once  you  get 
there  .  .  .  Aage,  I  would  give  all  the  forests  in  the  world, 
all  the  orchards  and  cornfields  and  flower  gardens,  for  a 
single  mountain.  But  a  real  one,  mind  you,  with  huge  rocky 
ridges,  and  green  plateaus,  and  snow  at  the  top.  Good 
heavens,  man,  to  think  that  I  have  one  all  to  myself — yes, 
I  own  a  mountain.  I  never  thought  of  it  before.  Can  you 
understand  how  I  ever  could  stay  away  from  it  all  so  long? 
But  I'm  going  back  now — going  home." 

"There's  the  concert  first,  don't  forget — tomorrow.  And 
you're  going  to  be  famous." 

"Tomorrow  .  .  .  yes.  ..." 

Ormarr  had  sat  up,  resting  on  his  elbow,  while  he  spoke 
of  his  home.  Now,  he  threw  himself  back  once  more,  as  if 
exhausted,  and  lay  wi^h  closed  eyes  as  before.  For  a  few 
moments  neither  spoke. 

"Aage,"  said  Ormarr  at  last,  "I  feel  tired — deadly  tired. 
I've  been  idling  here  all  day.  Tomorrow?  I  feel  as  if  to- 
morrow were  already  a  thing  of  the  past." 

He  got  up,  filled  his  glass  and  that  of  his  friend. 

"Drink!  Aage,  I've  something  to  tell  you.  Just  let  me 
go  on  talking,  and  don't  bother  about  it,  I  only  want  to  get 


OEMARR  0RLYGSSON  55 

it  out.  What  do  you  think  I've  been  seeing  all  the  time, 
lying  here  with  my  eyes  shut?  This  is  no  life  for  me.  I 
have  been  counting.  It  is  my  tenth  winter  here  now.  Ten 
years,  man — think!  And  today  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  come 
yesterday.  I  have  been  asleep — fast  asleep.  But  it  can't 

go  on.     There's  something  hurting  me,  a  sort  of  longing 

Oh,  I  know  it  sounds  all  nonsense,  but  you  needn't  worry 
about  that.  .  .  .  No,  this  won't  do.  I  don't  go  on  drinking 
and  enjoying  life  in  this  wasteful,  silly  fashion — and  forget- 
ting. I  wasn't  made  to  live  like  that.  I  was  made  to  think, 
and  to  work.  And  now  here  have  I  been  living  for  ten  years 
— yes,  and  working  hard,  I  know — but  all  for  nothing.  It 
means  nothing  at  all,  really.  Famous?  If  I  found  myself 
famous  after  tomorrow,  I  should  be  no  better  off  than  I  am 
now.  I  've  no  ambition  of  that  sort  any  longer — not  a  scrap. 
I  never  realized  it  before — it's  only  just  lately  I've  seen  it. 
And  think  of  dear  old  Abel  Grahl !  Do  you  know,  honestly, 
I  believe  he's  jealous — the  dear  old  boy!  He's  fond  of  me, 
I  know;  and  now  that  I'm  on  the  eve  of  my  'conquest,'  as 
he  always  says,  he  thinks  of  the  time  when  he  made  his  con- 
quest— and  fate  overtook  him  after.  I'm  sadly  afraid  that 
old  trouble's  cropped  up  again  now  with  him.  And  after 
all,  what  is  there  to  envy,  anyway  ?  What  sort  of  a  future 
if  I  do  succeed?  The  life  of  a  flunkey — a  menial  in  gold 
lace,  playing  for  money — and  to  whom?  I've  been  studying 
my  fellow-creatures  this  winter — musical  people — my 
audience-to-be.  Copenhagen's  not  the  world  I  know;  but 
human  beings  ane  much  the  same  everywhere,  I  take  it, 
though  their  looks  and  manners  may  differ  somewhat  in  de- 
tail. Grahl  has  been  taking  me  about.  He  hates  'society/ 
I  know,  but  he  took  it  all  up  again  for  my  sake — that's  the 
sort  of  man  he  is.  It  all  helps,  he  says.  Oh,  and  you  should 
have  heard  their  talk,  their  hard-and-fast  opinions,  and  the 
views  of  the  professional  critics.  Sometimes  I  feel  I  simply 
can't  go  on  living.  Simply  can't  stand  it.  What  wretched 
caricatures  we  all  are — myself  included.  No  I've  finished 
with  this  sort  of  life.  There's  not  a  thing  in  the  world  I 
care  for  now,  except  to  go  back  home.  If  only  I  could  be 


56  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

sure  that  was  a  genuine  feeling,  and  not  another  delusion. 
Don't  look  down  on  me,  old  man — Heaven  knows,  I've  no 
great  thoughts  about  myself  just  now.  You  know  me  well 
enough  to  see  that  I'm  not  drunk.  But  I  feel — oh,  just 
worthless.  All  these  years — and  living  like  this — it's  too 
contemptible.  I  feel  as  if  I  hadn't  an  atom  of  will-power 
left.  Just  sick  and  tired  of  everything  .  .  .  and  longing, 
aching  for  something.  .  .  .  Good  of  you  to  listen  so  patiently. 
Have  a  drink." 

Blad  was  silent  for  some  time,  and  when  at  last  he  spoke 
it  was  in  a  low  voice. 

"There's  something  I  should  like  to  say  to  you,"  he  said 
quietly.  " And  I'm  half  afraid  to  begin.  I've  been  thinking 
a  lot,  and  some  of  it  I  mustn't  say  at  all.  But  I  will  say 
this:  When  we  have  been  together  anywhere — out  in  the 
country,  or  on  the  sea,  or  in  the  town — anywhere,  I  always 
had  a  feeling  that  we  lived  as  it  were  on  different  levels,  you 
and  I.  To  me,  you  were  always  the  born  leader ;  I  felt  if  you 
took  it  into  your  head  to  order  me  about,  I  should  have  to 
obey.  Things  seemed  somehow  to  belong  to  you.  Then  at 
other  times,  I  could  feel  as  if  you  were  a  distinguished  visitor 
— one  can't  help  these  stray  thoughts,  you  know — as  if  Na- 
ture herself  put  on  her  best  and  did  all  she  could  to  please 
you — while  I  was  just  an  ordinary  person,  not  worth  making 
a  fuss  about.  I  belonged  to  her,  as  one  of  her  children,  and 
could  stray  about  unnoticed  among  the  trees  like  any  other 
creature  in  the  forest ;  it  never  came  into  my  head  to  look  on 
her  in  that  gay  lordly  way  of  yours.  And  sometimes  it 
seemed  you  were  the  better  off;  sometimes  that  it  was  better 
to  be  as  I  was.  It's  all  only  fancies,  of  course,  but  still  it 
does  prove  one  thing:  that  we  are  utterly  different.  I  am 
quite  content  to  live  an  ordinary  uneventful  life;  as  long  as 
I  can  ramble  about  in  Nature's  garden  and  cultivate  the 
modest  growths  of  my  art,  it  is  enough  for  me.  I  don't  care 
for  anything  that  calls  for  greater  energy  than  I  generally 
give,  whether  it  be  the  way  of  pleasure,  or  pain,  or  work. 
I've  no  ambition  worth  mentioning.  I  can  sit  in  my  garden, 
and  enjoy  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  or  go  out  in  a  boat,  and 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  57 

watch  the  sunlight  on  the  water ;  walk  in  the  woods  in  spring 
and  see  the  delicate  green  of  the  beech  leaves  against  the  sky 
— I  am  happy  enough  with  such  things.  There  are  heaps  of 
little  trifling  things  of  that  sort  that  please  me  every  day. 
But  it's  all  different  with  you.  It  may  sound  theatrical, 
perhaps,  but  it's  as  if  you  had  mountains — glaciers  and  vol- 
canoes— in  your  soul.  And  I  shouldn't  care  to  change  with 
you — it 's  all  too  big  for  me.  But  then  again,  if  you  were  like 
me,  I  shouldn't  care  about  you.  You  must  live  and  act  in  a 
different  way;  I  see  that.  You  could  stand  suffering  better 
than  I;  I'm  sure  of  that.  But  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  you 
have  the  power  of  being  really  happy.  Anyhow — well,  you 
know  I  'm  your  friend,  and  always  will  be. ' ' 

"I  know  that,  Blad." 

Ormarr  got  up,  switched  on  the  light,  looked  through  a 
bundle  of  newspapers  and  found  the  one  he  was  looking  for. 
Nervously  he  turned  the  pages  till  he  came  to  the  shipping 
intelligence. 

' '  There  is  a  boat  leaving  the  day  after  tomorrow. ' ' 

He  dropped  the  paper,  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
several  times,  shaking  his  head  defiantly,  as  if  at  his  own 
thoughts,  then  threw  himself  down  in  a  chair.  A  moment 
later  he  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  rose  reluctantly. 

"It's  time  I  went  round  now — to  Grahl.  The  final 
rehearsal.  ..." 

In  th;e  big  room  where,  ten  years  before,  a  curious  figure 
of  a  boy  in  ill-fitting  clothes  had  called  on  him  for  the  first 
time,  Abel  Grahl  sat  at  the  piano  accompanying  the  later 
stage  of  that  same  youth — now  a  slender,  palefaced  young 
man.  They  were  playing  a  nocturne — the  only  one  of 
Ormarr 's  own  compositions  on.  the  morrow's  program. 
The  theme  was  that  same  one  of  the  sunset  with  which 
Ormarr  had  introduced  himself  to  his  master,  only  the 
technique  was  different. 

Ormarr  looked  out  through  the  window  as  he  played,  see- 
ing nothing  in  particular.  As  long  as  he  held  his  violin,  his 


58  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

soul  lived  only  in  the  magic  world  of  melody  that  flowed 
from  the  strings. 

Grahl's  accompaniment  was  strangely  absent  and 
mechanical.  His  figure  was  bowed  at  the  shoulders,  and  the 
black  coat  he  wore  accentuated  his  thinness.  He  had  aged 
much  of  late,  and  looked  haggard  and  worn.  Now  and  again 
he  turned  his  head  towards  his  pupil  with  a  searching  glance. 

When  they  had  been  through  the  whole  of  the  programme, 
Grahl  remained  seated  at  the  instrument,  striking  one  chord 
repeatedly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  nothing.  The  corners  of  his 
mouth  dropped  in  a  bitter  smile.  Then,  turning  to  Ormarr, 
he  said  in  a  queer,  strained  voice : 

"Play  that  Andante  once  more,  will  you?  Not  that  you 
need  it — it  couldn't  be  better.  Just  play  it  for  me." 

And  Ormarr  played. 

When  he  had  finished,  Grahl  spoke,  without  looking  up,  as 
to  himself: 

"That  was  one  of  the  things  I  played  at  my  first  concert. 
I  did  not  play  it  as  well  as  you — no,  not  half  so  well.  I  doubt 
if  Beethoven  himself  ever  played  it  better ! ' ' 

For  a  while  he  sat  with  bowed  head.  Then  raising  him- 
self suddenly,  he  ran  his  fingers  over  the  keyboard,  and  the 
gay  tones  of  the  "Valse  d'Espagne"  danced  like  demons  out 
upon  the  silence  that  had  followed  Beethoven's  Andante. 

Ormarr,  who  had  been  standing  deep  in  thought,  looked 
round  with  a  start;  Grahl  rose  from  the  music-stool  with  a 
harsh  laugh. 

"A  fancy  of  mine,"  he  said  shortly,  "to  let  Waldteufel 
loose  on  the  heels  of  Beethoven." 

He  went  across  to  the  table,  lit  a  cigar,  and  slipped  into 
an  easy-chair. 

Ormarr  followed  his  movements  intently.  There  was  a 
strange  expression  in  his  eyes,  and  the  lin.es  on  his  forehead 
and  face  seemed  deeper  than  usual. 

Grahl  paid  no  heed  to  him ;  he  was  smoking,  and  evidently 
occupied  with  his  own  reflections.  When  Ormarr  moved,  he 
looked  up,  and  pointed  to  a  chair. 


OBMARR  ^RLYGSSON  59 

"Sit  down,  Onnarr;  not  time  to  go  home  yet.  Take  a 
cigar. ' ' 

"Thanks." 

Ormarr  took  a  cigar  and  lit  it,  covertly  watching  the  ex- 
pression of  the  old  man's  face. 

"Sit  there,  Ormarr,  where  I  can  see  you;  that's  it.  I  was 
thinking,  there's  not  much  left  of  the  peasant  lad  who  came 
up  here  that  morning  ten  years  ago.  The  eyes  are  the  same, 
yes;  and  a  look  about  the  face — I've  noticed  it  the  last  few 
days.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  it  was  as  well  I  didn't  send  you  away 
that  day  after  all." 

Ormarr  felt  his  cheeks  flush,  and  bent  forward  in  his 
chair. 

"My  dear  Grahl,  I  feel  myself  a  man  now  in  most  things, 
but  there's  one  thing  that  has  stuck  to  me  since  I  was  a  child. 
I  never  could  thank  any  one  in  words.  And  I  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you  in  any  other  way.  .  .  .I'm  sure  no  father 
ever  did  more  for  his  son  than  you  have  done  for  me.  I 
hardly  know  how  any  one  could  do  more  for  a  fellow-creature 
than  you  have." 

"Oh.  .  .  .  And  what  is  this,  if  you  please,  if  not  thanking 
me  in  words?" 

"You  know  yourself  how  much  I  owe  you — you  know  I 
don't  exaggerate  things  as  a  rule.  ..." 

' '  There,  Ormarr,  that 's  enough.  You  must  have  seen  what 
it  meant  to  me  all  along — the  joy  and  delight  of  teaching 
you.  No  more  pupils  now  for  Abel  Grahl.  You  are  my  last 
— and  my  greatest.  If  I  could  find  one  greater  still  .  .  .  ? 
I  don't  think  I  shall  live  to  be  roused  from  my  bed  a  second 
time  at  six  in  the  morning  by  a  lad  with  his  fiddle  in  a  calf- 
skin bag  and  the  promise  of  fame  in  his  eyes. ' ' 

Ormarr  laughed  at  the  thought.  A  moment  later  he  was 
serious  once  more.  And  Grahl  went  on : 

"You'll  go  travelling  about  the  world,  giving  concerts  here, 
there,  and  everywhere.  I  wish  I  were  strong  enough  to  go 
with  you." 

Onnarr  laughed  again,  but  without  heartiness. 


60  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"Grahl,  my  dear  master,  why  not?  Come  with  me! 
Nowadays,  with  trains  de  luxe  and  floating  palaces,  it  wiLl  be 
pleasant  as  could  be.  And  at  least  I  should  have  some  one  to 
play  for." 

"I  ...  to  travel  .  .  .  after  al}?  It's  late  in  the  day 
.  .  .  and  not  exactly  the  way  I  had  once  thought.  ..." 

Ormarr  sprang  to  his  feet,  but  sat  down  again. 

"Grahl,  you  are  my  friend — the  best  I  have,  I  think.  I 
must  tell  you  something  now — something  that  has  happened 
to  me.  Listen :  I  do  not  care  about  the  concert  tomorrow — 
it  means  nothing.  Fame  is  nothing  to  me  now.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  going  about  playing  for 
people  I  do  not  know,  and  should  not  care  to  know.  Stran- 
gers— foreigners !  It  makes  me  a  piece  of  common  property ; 
one  of  the  artistic  wonders  of  the  world.  And  then  to  see  my 
name,  my  portrait,  on  huge  posters  everywhere  .  .  .  read 
interviews  with  myself,  criticisms  of  my  art — Grahl,  the 
thought  of  it  sickens  me.  I  won't — I  can't — oh,  if  only  I 
could  get  out  of  it  now,  before  ..." 

"Why,  boy  .  .  .  Ormarr,  my  dear  lad,  what  is  this? 
what  has  come  over  you?  Surely  you  do  not — you  could 
not  think  of  throwing  everything  away  now — burning 
your  ships?  Ten  years  of  hard  work — yours  and  mine.  .  .  . 
If  there  were  any  risk,  I  could  understand  perhaps  your  be- 
ing afraid  .  .  .  but  as  it  is  ...  you  have  only  to  show  your- 
self— one  first  appearance,  and  the  thing  is  done.  No, 
Ormarr,  you  could  not  draw  back  now.  It  would  be  madness 
— nothing  else." 

"That  may  be.  But  none  the  less,  that  is  how  I  feel.  I 
have  lost  all  desire  to  show  myself,  to  appear  in  public.  I 
do  not  care  for  any  'conquest.'  I  could  do  it,  I  know.  But 
that  means  that  in  reality  I  have  already  conquered.  It  is 
satisfaction  enough  to  me ;  I  need  not  show  myself  on  a  plat- 
form to  utter  strangers  who  have  paid  so  much  for  the  right 
to  hear  me  play  this  or  that.  Every  item  on  the  programme 
as  a  right — and  extras  in  return  for  their  applause.  No — if 
you  cared,  I  should  not  mind  playing  to  you  every  day,  for 
hours  together — to  you  alone.  Or  to  any  others  that  I  cared 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  61 

about.  Come  back  with  me  to  Iceland.  I  will  look  after  you, 
be  a  son  to  you,  take  care  of  you,  in  every  way.  But  spare  me 
this ;  release  me  from  the  burden  of  that  concert  and  all  that 
should  come  after  it." 

"Ormarr — you  must  be  out  of  your  senses." 

''Whether  or  no,  I  am  what  I  am.  And  I  can't  be  other- 
wise. I  am  furious  with  myself  too;  blind  fool  that  I 
have  been — oh,  you  don't  know  what  I  feel  at  this  mo- 
ment." 

Ormarr  noticed  that  Grahl  was  feeling  for  his  watch. 

"Don't,"  he  put  in  hastily.  "I  don't  want  to  see  any 
one  tonight.  I  can't  stand  it.  I  don't  know  what  may 
happen.  ..." 

Abel  Grahl  rose  from  his  seat.  When  he  spoke,  his  voice 
was  calm  and  earnest. 

"Ormarr,  remember  I  stand  to  you  in  a  father's  stead. 
You  cannot  get  away  from  this.  Where  is  my  son,  who  had 
grown  to  be  a  man  of  the  world?  We  had  grown  out  of 
stage  fright,  nerves  and  all  that  nonsense,  surely?  To- 
morrow is  our  concert.  We  must  not  forget  it,  we  must  be 
there  in  time.  But  beyond  that,  we  need  not  give  the  matter 
a  thought.  There — that's  the  way  to  look  at  it.  Don't  for- 
get." 

Ormarr  paled  slightly. 

"Very  well — have  it  your  own  way." 

A  car  was  heard  hooting  outside,  and  they  went  out. 

Ormarr  stood  on  the  platform  of  the  Concert  Hall,  playing 
the  Andante  from  Beethoven's  Sonata.  This  was  the  third 
item  on  the  programme.  The  first  had  been  a  show  piece, 
from  Tchaikowsky,  which  had  given  him  an  opportunity  of 
displaying  his  extraordinary  skill  and  masterly  technique. 
After  the  second,  his  own  nocturne,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
applause  would  never  end.  The  audience  was  delirious. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  nocturne,  with  its  melancholy  depths 
and  wild  heights  of  joy,  its  bewildering  beauty  and  strange 
transitions,  moved  the  dense  crowd  as  if  by  magic. 

The  appearance  of  the  young  artist  had  fascinated  his 


62  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

listeners  from  the  outset.  Despite  the  air  of  superiority  and 
composure,  there  was  nothing  of  arrogance  in  his  bearing. 
At  the  first  entry  of  this  young  man,  with  the  pale,  lean  face 
and  the  half -closed  eyes  that  yet  seemed  to  see  everything,  and 
see  through  every  one,  the  audience  felt  the  magnetism  of  an 
extraordinary  personality. 

Success  was  certain,  inevitable.  From  the  very  first,  the 
audience  had  surrendered  unconditionally. 

As  he  stood  there  playing,  Ormarr  appeared  quite  calm 
and  collected.  Not  the  slightest  tremor  of  the  body,  no  trace 
of  expression  on  his  smooth  face,  betrayed  the  struggle  raging 
within.  But  Ormarr  himself  knew  that  it  was  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  time;  up  to  a  certain  point  he  might  control  himself 
— after  that,  the  deluge. 

Two  men  there  were,  however,  among  those  in  the  hall,  who 
suspected  something  of  the  strain  it  cost  him  to  keep  his  rebel- 
lious temperament  in  check:  they  knew  that  his  apparent 
calm  was  but  a  mask.  The  two  were  Blad  and  Abel  Grahl, 
sitting  together  in  the  front  row. 

The  serene  progress  of  the  Andante  was  undisturbed  by 
any  sound  from  those  in  front.  Ormarr  felt  as  if  his  listen- 
ers were  turned  to  stone,  and  his  playing  was  caressing  them 
like  a  gentle  breeze. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  over  him  an  irresistible  desire 
to  jerk  them  back  to  life — to  startle  them,  set  them  fluttering 
and  cackling  like  a  pack  of  frightened  fowls.  To  tear  at 
their  sense,  to  render  their  innermost  souls,  to  fling  at  them, 
like  a  fiery  volcanic  eruption,  something  unexpected  and 
terrible — something  unheard  of. 

In  a  fraction  of  a  second  it  had  come.  A  bursting  of  all 
bonds  that  chained  his  ungovernable  mind:  reason,  duty, 
ambition,  the  fear  of  consequences.  It  was  as  if  in  a  moment 
he  flung  from  him  the  prejudices  and  traditions  in  which 
men  are  wont  to  dress,  and  stood  there  before  them  in  pri- 
meval nakedness. 

He  saw  Grahl  trying  to  rise:  trying  to  prevent  something 
he  knew  was  coming.  .  .  . 

And  half  unconsciously,  as  if  it  had  been  the  most  natural 


ORMARE  0RLYGSSON  63 

thing  in  the  world,  he  plunged  blasphemously  from  Beetho- 
ven's Andante  into  Waldteufel's  "Valse  d'Espagne." 

Ormarr  was  cool  and  calm  as  ever,  but  pale  as  a  ghost. 
The  music  raced  away  madly  into  the  waltz,  laughing  and 
crying  in  complete  abandon. 

A  feeling  of  something  uncanny  seized  the  audience  for 
a  second;  as  if  icy  waters  had  overwhelmed  them  in  flood, 
depriving  them  of  movement,  suffocating  all  cries  for  help. 

Grahl  rose  to  his  feet,  and  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  cry 
aloud.  Then  he  fell  back  in  his  chair,  without  a  sound. 

Suddenly  Ormarr  stopped  playing;  his  arms  fell  to  his 
sides,  and  he  stood  on  the  platform  laughing — a  tremulous, 
uneasy  laugh.  Then  he  turned  and  fled. 

A  storm  of  shouts  and  noise  rose  up  from  the  audience. 
The  silence  of  enraptured  listeners  had  given  place  to  the 
confusion  of  a  disturbed  ant-hill.  Some  questioned,  others 
raged,  a  few  broke  down  entirely. 

"Scandalous!"  "Mad!"  sounded  through  the  din. 
Several  minutes  passed  before  any  thought  of  leaving. 
Then  suddenly  the  word  "dead"  began  to  circulate.  And 
gradually  the  crowd  grew  quiet,  and  dispersed,  moved  to 
forgiveness  by  the  thought  that  the  madman  had  ceased  to 
live.  Only  a  few  were  aware  that  it  was  not  the  player  who 
was  dead. 

Ormarr  reached  home  and  let  himself  in — not  until  then 
did  he  notice  that  he  had  walked  all  the  way  without  hat  or 
overcoat,  still  carrying  his  violin. 

After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  His  mind  was  in  a  state 
of  utter  indifference  to  everything;  completely  numbed. 

His  shoes  were  muddy,  his  dress  coat  wet  through;  he 
raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  wiped  the  rain  from  his 
face. 

His  throat  was  parched ;  he  felt  nervous  and  ill.  He  fum- 
bled about  for  whisky  and  a  syphon,  drained  one  glass  at  a 
draught  and  poured  out  another.  Then,  drenched  and  dirty 
as  he  was,  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  divan,  without  a 
thought  of  changing  his  wet  things. 


64  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

The  blood  throbbed  in  his  temples;  there  was  not  a  clear 
thought  in  his  mind.  When  he  shut  his  eyes,  he  felt  as  if  a 
wheel  were  tearing  round  at  a  furious  rate  inside  his  head. 

The  door  bell  rang — it  was  Blad. 

"Grahl  is  dead!" 

Blad  threw  down  Ormarr's  hat  and  coat,  which  he  had 
been  carrying;  he  himself  was  out  of  breath,  and  overpow- 
ered with  emotion. 

"Grahl — dead?"  Ormarr  sat  bowed  forward,  his  hands 
clasped,  his  eyes  staring  vacantly  before  him.  Blad  stood 
watching  him  for  a  moment.  Then  he  burst  out: 

"You — you  must  be  mad!" 

"I  suppose  so — yes." 

"And — you  don't  care  in  the  least?" 

Ormarr  made  no  reply. 

"Think  of  the  scandal  of  it  all!" 

Still  Ormarr  said  nothing. 

' '  And  then — Grahl !     That  ought  never  to  have  happened. ' ' 

"I  suppose  not." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  it  is  all  nothing  to  you — that  you 
have  ruined  your  own  career  for  ever,  and  killed  Grahl — 
your  friend — your  teacher?  After  that — oh,  but  you  must 
be  insane,  there's  no  other  word  for  it." 

"Very  well,  then." 

"Were  you  drunk?" 

"Drunk?  No,  I  wasn't  drunk.  But  do  let's  talk  of  some- 
thing else.  It 's  no  good  discussing  this  any  more.  It 's  done, 
and  can't  be  undone.  I  am  going  back  home — to  Iceland. 
There's  a  boat  leaving  tomorrow.  Take  off  your  coat,  won't 
you — you're  going  to  stay  now?  Mix  yourself  a  drink,  man, 
do." 

"No,  thank  you."  Blad  spoke  coldly,  flinging  out  his 
words,  and  pacing  the  floor  excitedly. 

"Have  I  hurt  you  too?  I  can't  think  how  I  could  have 
done  that.  Surely  you  can't  feel  hurt  at  my  being  what  I 
am,  and  doing  what  I  can 't  help  doing  ?  I  asked  you  to  stay 
just  now,  because  I  thought  you  were  my  friend.  If  you  are 
no  longer  my  friend,  then  you  had  better  go." 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  65 

' '  Really,  I  almost  fancy  you  would  like  to  turn  me  out  now 
because  I  decline  to  drink  with  you  to  Grahl's  happy  decease. 
By  Heaven,  you  do  not  deserve  that  I  should  stay." 

"Oh,  you  damned  fool — who's  talking  about  what  I 
deserve ! ' ' 

Blad  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  paralysed  by  the  word. 
Then  in  a  voice  heavy  with  emotion,  he  said: 

"Ormarr — that  was  the  first  ugly  word  I  have  ever  heard 
you  use.  And  it  was  said  to  me — to  me!" 

''To  you — yes.  But  you  made  me  angry,  you  know.  Up 
to  then,  I  was  only  miserable — and  so  hopelessly  tired.  And 
here  you  are  reproaching  me  for  things  I  could  not  help. 
And  really,  you  know,  when  you  are  so  utterly  foolish  as  to 
measure  me  by  your  standards,  I  can't  call  you  anything 
else.  I  don't  repent  what  I  did  tonight.  How  can  a  man 
repent  things  that  happen — things  over  which  he  had  no  con- 
trol whatever?  But  I  do  repent — or  at  least,  I  am  sorry 
— for  what  happened  before — for  what  brought  it  all  about. 
Grahl  was  my  friend  and  benefactor — and  yet  I  cannot  feel 
any  grief  at  his  death.  I  simply  can't  think  at  all  at  the 
present  moment;  haven't  a  single  atom  of  emotion  in  me. 
I'm  just  a  wilderness.  Oh,  if  you  knew  what  I  am  suffering 
now — death  would  be  welcome;  a  relief.  There's  just  one 
thing  that  grows  and  grows  in  me  now — the  need  to  go  back, 
to  go  home." 

"And  your  father — what  will  he  say,  do  you  think?" 

"My  father?  I  don't  know.  I  wonder  what  he  will  say. 
It  will  be  a  big  disappointment  to  him,  this.  How  could  I 
ever  have  done  it?  I  don't  understand  myself  now — it  all 
seems  so  ridiculous;  to  lose  control  of  oneself  like  that." 

Blad  started. 

•'Then — then  you  didn't  do  it  on  purpose?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!  Did  you — could  you  think  that  of 
me?  I  suppose  you  fancied  it  was  a  new  sort  of  advertising 
trick — well,  why  not?" 

"Ormarr — forgive  me.  But  you  were  so  cool  about  it  all 
— I  never  thought  ..." 

"All  right,  never  mind.    "We  won't  worry  about  it  any 


66  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

more.  I'm  dead  tired.  Stay  here  tonight,  won't  you?  I'm 
not  going  to  bed ;  no  good  trying  to  sleep.  Stay  and  see  me 
off;  the  boat  goes  at  nine.  Thanks,  that's  good  of  you.  Get 
some  sleep,  if  you  can,  yourself.  There's  a  lot  of  things  I'll 
want  you  to  do  for  me  while  I'm  away.  Send  me — no  .  .  . 
no,  I  won't  have  any  of  these  things  here.  You  can  take 
them  over — keep  what  you  care  about  and  sell  the  rest.  I 
want  to  forget  these  years — as  far  as  I  can.  Though  I've 
learned  much  in  the  time — and  paid  dearly  for  it.  Now  I 
am  going  home — going  home  to  Iceland,  and  then  .  .  .  what 
next,  I  wonder?" 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  a  bright  wintry  day  when  Ormarr,  watching  from 
the   captain's  bridge,  saw   his  native  land  rise  snow- 
clad  from  the  blue-green  sea  against  a  high,  clear  sky. 
The  captain  noticed  that  the  fur-clad  man  who  had  been 
up  on  the  bridge  since  early  that  morning  to  get  the  first 
glimpse  of  land,  seemed  strangely  moved  at  the  sight  of  it. 
Well,  it  was  none  of  his  business.  .  .  . 

Never  before  had  Ormarr  seen  Iceland  rising  thus  out  of 
the  sea ;  he  had  but  a  dim  notion  of  the  grandeur  of  the  sight. 
Unconsciously,  he  had  always  thought  of  Iceland  in  the  green 
of  spring  or  summer,  and  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  it  so 
on  his  return.  Being  winter,  of  course,  there  would  be  snow. 
But  he  had  never  thought  to  see  it  all  so  white  and  clean 
and  brilliant  as  now. 

A  vague  joy  filled  him  as  -he  looked ;  he  felt  that  his  soul 
was  come  of  the  race  of  those  great  mountains,  as  of  a  line  of 
kings. 

Iceland — his  country!  Like  a  cathedral,  a  consecrated 
pile  of  granite,  pure  and  holy  in  the  seas  of  the  far  north. 
And  the  snow — how  he  loved  it!  And  the  rocks,  the  hills 
and  valleys  .  .  <  the  brooks  and  streams,  sleeping  their 
winter  sleep  now,  under  the  ice.  And  fire  too,  the  marvel- 
lous, merciless  fire,  smouldering  quietly  in  its  lava  bed,  yet 
strong  enough  to  melt  the  ice  of  a  hundred  years  in  less  than 
a  minute  and  hurl  it  in  huge  floods  of  boiling  water  and  red- 
hot  rocks  and  lava  down  the  mountain-side,  through  the 
valleys,  out  into  the  sea.  What  did  it  care  for  men,  or  their 
goods  or  their  lives!  All  had  to  die.  And  better  to  die  by 
fire  or  ice  than  on  a  bed  of  sickness.  Far  better  to  die  young 
in  some  mighty  upheaval  than  to  drag  palsied  bones  through 
a  dreary  wilderness  of  old  age. 

67 


68  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Ormarr  smoothed  his  brow. 

Why  think  of  dying  now  ?  He  was  still  young,  and  fit  for 
action.  Yet  if  Mother  Iceland  should  think  fit  to  crush  him 
to  his  death  in  her  embrace,  well,  he  was  ready.  Well  for 
him,  perhaps,  to  find  death  on  her  icebound,  fiery  heart,  if  the 
road  of  life  proved  too  wearisome. 

Strange  thoughts — was  he  mad,  after  all?  He  was  think- 
ing now  as  he  had  done  so  often  when  a  child.  But  his 
dreams  had  changed.  Then,  Iceland  had  been  the  starting- 
point  of  his  imaginings;  it  had  been  as  a  weight  at  his  heel, 
keeping  him  in  bondage,  holding  him  back  from  all  that  he 
thought  made  life  worth  living.  Now  it  was  changed — now 
all  his  dreams  turned  towards  it,  centred  round  it — Iceland 
now  was  his  home.  Home?  No,  he  had  no  home  anywhere 
on  earth.  Yet  he  felt  drawn  towards  it  none  the  less ;  long- 
ing for  his  country.  .  .  . 

But  what  was  this — Iceland — hovering  above  him,  looking 
down  at  him — would  she  no  longer  receive  him?  Was  he  her 
child  no  more?  Had  the  world  worn  away  the  marks  by 
which  his  mother  had  known  him? 

Foolishness — his  brain  was  running  wild.  And  yet — how 
was  it  with  him,  after  all?  Was  it  not  true  that  he  was 
unworthy  of  love — a  failure,  self -condemned  ? 

Iceland,  towering  in  shining  armour,  in  glittering  floes  and 
spotless  mantle  of  snow.  And  one  coming  to  her  from  the 
outer  world,  with  the  dirt  of  alien  countries  on  his  feet,  and 
the  pain  and  weariness  of  the  world  in  his  heart.  Her  sacred 
places  were  no  longer  open  to  him  now;  closed,  locked;  the 
keys  hidden  far  away,  not  there.  Perhaps  in  the  place 
whence  he  had  come,  perhaps  far  distant,  on  some 
other  continent.  Or  hidden,  maybe,  on  the  other  side  of 
life. 

Iceland!  As  he  watched  the  land  rise  from  the  cold  blue 
waves,  he  felt  that  he,  who  once  had  been  her  child,  was  no 
longer  worthy  to  be  so.  He  had  sinned  in  coming  back  at 
all.  And  he  vowed  in  his  heart  to  set  out  once  more  in  quest 
of  the  key  that  might  unlock  its  holy  places  to  him  once  more. 
Whatever  happened,  he  must  go  away  again.  And  if  he 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  (59 

could  not  find  what  lie  sought,  then  there  could  be  no  return. 
Only  let  him  first  breathe  the  air  here  for  a  little  while,  tread 
the  soil  that  had  been  his  father's — men  who  had  never 
shamed  their  native  land. 

Again  he  smoothed  his  forehead — the  movement  had  be- 
come a  habit  with  him  whenever  he  wished  to  check  or  change 
a  train  of  thought.  And  he  laughed  harshly. 

"Well,  Ormarr  0rlygsson,  my  friend  and  brother,"  he 
thought  to  himself,  "this  time  you  are  certainly  mad  .  .  . 
mad  beyond  cure  .  .  .  caught  in  the  act — hysteria  pure  and 
simple." 

He  sighed  deeply — there  was  an  ache  at  his  heart. 

"What  is  it?"  he  thought.  "If  I  go  on  like  this  ...  if 
1  let  my  thoughts  and  fancies  play  at  will  like  this.  I  shall  end 
as  a  lunatic :  lose  all  control  over  myself,  and  be  shut  up 
somewhere — a  pleasant  prospect!  Or  at  best,  be  allowed  to 
go  about  at  home  in  a  living  death :  a  beast  with  instincts  and 
no  soul,  on  the  place  I  was  born  to  rule.  And  father — to 
see  his  son  an  object  of  pity  or  contempt.  ...  No:  I  must 
get  away  now,  before  something  happens.  Better  perhaps 
not  to  land  at  all,  but  go  on  round  the  coast,  and  back  with  the 
steamer  to  Copenhagen. 

"Well,  we  shall  see.  Most  likely  it  would  be  the  wisest 
thing  to  do.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  cruel  to 
father.  .  .  . 

"Wait  and  see.  Let  me  at  least  feel  the  soil  of  my  own 
country  under  my  feet :  touch  the  snow,  drink  its  water,  and 
breathe  its  air — satisfy  myself  that  it  is  not  a  vision  merely, 
no  fairy  tale,  but  a  reality." 

At  the  first  port  Ormarr  went  ashore.  He  felt  happy  as 
a  child,  and  laughed  and  joked  with  the  crew.  And  when 
the  boat  neared  the  pier,  he  waved  his  hand  to  the  crowd 
there,  though  he  did  not  know  a  soul  among  them.  They 
shrank  back  a  little  at  the  gay  familiarity  on  the  part  of  a 
stranger — but  Ormarr  did  not  care.  » 

He  set  out  on  foot  to  explore  the  neighbourhood,  a  poor 
enough  place  it  was.  It  was  only  with  an  effort  that  he 
restrained  himself  from  walking  up  to  the  windows  of  the 


70  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

little  houses  and  looking  in,  or  knocking  at  the  doors,  just 
to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  a  home  in  his  own  country. 

On  an  open  space  some  boys  were  racing  about  playing 
snowballs.  This  was  too  much  for  Ormarr;  before  he  knew 
it,  he  was  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  and  in  a  moment  he  had 
all  the  lads  on  top  of  him.  With  shouts  and  laughter  they 
pelted  him  from  all  sides,  and  ended  by  fairly  burying  him 
in  the  loose  snow. 

The  boys  stood  around  laughing  heartily  when  at  last, 
gasping  for  breath,  he  emerged;  this  was  a  first-rate  play- 
mate that  had  suddenly  appeared  from  nowhere.  Eager 
queries  were  hurled  at  him. 

A  tall,  freckled  peasant  lad  came  up  and  asked  his  name, 
others  equally  inquisitive  put  their  questions  without  giving 
him  time  to  reply  to  the  first.  Was  he  from  the  steamer  just 
come  in?  Where  had  he  come  from?  From  Copenhagen? 
What  had  he  been  doing  there?  Was  he  going  on  with  the 
steamer  again?  If  so,  he  would  have  to  hurry;  the  second 
whistle  had  already  gone. 

And  the  whole  crowd  followed  him  down  to  the  harbour, 
two  of  the  smaller  boys  taking  each  a  hand.  When  he  gave 
them  some  small  coin,  they  decided  that  he  must  be  the  new 
Governor  at  the  very  least,  and  felt  some  tremors  at  the  disre- 
spectful manner  in  which  they  had  treated  such  a  personage. 

As  the  boat  rowed  off  to  the  steamer,  they  stood  on  the  pier 
waving  their  caps,  and  stayed  there,  waving  and  shouting  as 
the  vessel  moved  off. 

Ormarr  felt  unspeakably  grateful  for  this  welcome  from 
his  country — a  welcome  of  smiles,  and  snow,  and  youth;  the 
glowing  warmth  that  was  in  its  element  amid  the  biting  cold. 
He  felt  himself  akin  to  these  lads,  with  their  hands  and  faces 
warm  and  wet  from  perspiration  and  melting  snow;  who 
rolled  about  in  the  snowdrifts  despite  their  clothing,  braved 
the  cold  and  the  roughness  of  the  elements,  enjoying  them- 
selves in  the  depth  of  an  arctic  winter  as  well  as  in  any  trop- 
ical summer  heat.  They  had  no  idea  of  modern  precautions 
against  climate. 

There  they  stood,  waving  to  him,  acknowledging  him  as 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  71 

one  of  their  own,  never  dreaming  that  he  had  been  about  to 
drift  away  into  an  artificial  life  that  nursed  the  frailties  of  the 
body  regardless  of  health,  until  the  body  became  a  thing  to 
loathe,  unless  the  soul  itself  were  cynically  hardened. 

This  was  the  moment  for  action,  the  time  to  pull  oneself 
together  and  decide;  here  was  the  way  to  follow — follow  it! 

But  first  of  all,  to  find  the  right  way. 

Ormarr  felt  now  that  he  could  go  back  to  his  father.  Could 
tell  him  all,  confess  that  he  had  chosen  a  wrong  path,  a  way 
whereby  his  body  might  have  passed  unscathed,  but  his  soul 
never — it  was  never  meant  that  the  two  should  be  divided. 
He  must  rest  and  think  for  a  while  and  find  a  new 
road. 

Once  more  Ormarr  had  climbed  to  the  bridge,  and  remained 
there  till  the  steamer  touched  at  the  next  port.  It  would  be 
a  couple  of  days  before  he  could  reach  home. 

The  day  wore  away,  and  night  came  down,  but  it  was  still 
quite  light.  The  moon  was  high,  right  over  the  land,  its  white 
glow  hovering  over  the  landscape  and  giving  it  an  air  of 
unreality,  like  a  spell  that  held  all  things  in  the  bonds  of 
sleep.  The  ship  itself,  chained  to  a  silver  beam,  was  the 
captive  of  this  enchanted  country,  for  all  that  it  kept  on 
its  course;  sooner  or  later,  it  seemed,  the  time  would  come 
when  it  must  crash  on  a  rocky  coast. 

Ormarr  turned  from  the  moon,  forgetting  the  base  designs 
which  he  had  just  attributed  to  its  dull  red  bridge  of  rays. 
He  looked  at  the  stars — and  suddenly  he  remembered  the 
summer  nights  at  home,  when  he  had  lain  out  among  the  hay 
in  the  fields,  unable  to  draw  his  eyes  from  the  twinkling 
golden  points  of  light. 

The  northern  lights  flickered  and  faded,  and  showed  up 
anew;  like  fiery  clouds,  appearing  suddenly  on  one  horizon, 
to  vanish  in  a  flaming  trail  behind  another.  Ormarr  loved 
them — their  restlessness,  their  capricious,  fantastic  shapes, 
the  play  of  mood  through  every  imaginable  shade  of  colour 
— it  was  a  silent  musical  display  of  heavenly  fire. 

Next  day,  the  captain  and  Ormarr  were  alone  on  the  bridge. 


72  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Each  was  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts,  and  both  were 
gazing  towards  the  shore. 

The  captain  broke  the  silence. 

"See  there,  Hr.  0rlygsson — that  ring  of  mist  there  round 
the  peak.  Now,  mist,  I  should  say,  is  white  as  a  rule,  but 
looking  at  it  there,  against  the  snow,  it  looks  just  grey." 

Ormarr  made  some  brief  reply;  he  was  studying  the  face 
of  the  little  Danish  captain. 

The  latter  spoke  again: 

"I  don't  know  if  you  know  this  part  of  the  country  at 
all.  When  we  round  that  point  just  ahead,  you  will  see 
one  of  the  strangest  fjords  all  round  the  coast,  though  that's 
saying  a  good  deal.  Rocks  sticking  up  out  of  the  sea,  sharp 
as  needles  some  of  them,  and  some  all  tumbled  about  in 
groups ;  some  look  like  houses,  and  there  are  a  few  that  make 
gateways,  as  it  were,  real  arches,  that  you  can  take  a  ship 
through  if  you  like. ' ' 

' '  Then  we  shall  be  in  very  soon,  I  suppose — and  up  to  time 
for  once." 

The  little  Dane  drew  himself  up  stiffly,  glanced  coldly  at 
Ormarr,  and  said: 

"Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  my  ship  is  always  up  to  time." 

"Why,  then,  it  is  I  who  must  ask  your  pardon,  Captain 
Jantzen. ' ' 

' '  Always  excepting  pack  ice  and  being  hung  up  by  a  gale, ' ' 
added  the  captain  in  a  milder  tone.  "Otherwise,  I  admit 
you're  right  about  being  up  to  time  generally — my  ship's 
an  exception,  that's  all.  I  put  it  plainly  to  the  owners: 
either  give  me  a  time-table  that  I  can  keep  to,  or  find  another 
skipper.  It's  a  r>oint  of  honour  with  me,  as  you  might  say. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  another  Iceland  boat  once 
came  into  port  on  the  day  fixed — only  it  was  just  a  month 
late." 

The  captain  laughed  at  his  own  jest,  and  Ormarr  joined  in. 
Then  Captain  Jantzen  went  on: 

"Really,  you  know,  it  is  a  shame  that  there  should  be  sucn 
a  wretched  service  of  steamers  in  these  waters.  There  are 
several  companies,  I  know,  but  they  simply  agree  that  there 'a 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  73 

no  sense  in  competition,  so  they  keep  up  freights,  and  run 
their  ships  as  they  please.  You  may  often  have  to  wait 
weeks  for  a  boat,  and  then  find  the  sailing's  cancelled  for 
some  reason  or  other.  Yes,  there's  a  chance  for  a  man  with 
energy  and  capital,  that's  certain." 

Ormarr  started  at  the  other's  words;  it  was  as  if  a  mist 
faded  from  before  his  eyes ;  here  before  him  was  a  chance  to 
redeem  himself. 

He  turned  to  the  captain  and  looked  at  him  searchingly; 
a  good  man,  by  the  look  of  him,  and  with  determination  in  his 
face.  Suddenly  he  noticed  that  the  man  lacked  one  finger 
on  his  left  hand — strange,  Abel  Grahl  too  had  lost  a  finger. 
The  coincidence  seemed  to  form  a  bond  between  himself 
and  the  captain.  Fate,  perhaps — why  not? 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling  at  himself  for  the  superstition. 
Nevertheless,  he  asked  the  captain: 

' '  Ever  taken  a  turn  with  Fate,  Captain  Jantzen  ? ' ' 

The  captain  smiled,  a  mirthless  smile  that  might  have  been 
a  setting  of  his  teeth. 

"I  should  think  so,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  definite  cer- 
tainty, as  if  answering  some  question  about  a  harbour  he 
knew  blindfold.  "And  if  you  haven't,  I'll  give  you  a  bit 
of  advice:  take  it  by  the  horns  straight  away;  don't  wait  on 
the  defensive,  attack  at  once.  There's  this  about  it:  when 
luck  favours  a  man,  and  he's  sound  enough  not  to  get  spoiled 
by  it  at  once,  sure  enough,  Fate  will  try  to  get  a  foot  on  his 
neck." 

He  stretched  out  his  left  hand  towards  Ormarr,  showing 
the  index  finger  missing,  and  went  on: 

"It  cost  me  that.  I  was  a  deck  hand  on  a  fishing-boat  at 
the  time,  though  I  knew  the  sea,  and  had  many  a  rough  turn 
with  it,  and  saved  more  than  one  from  drowning.  And 
that's  a  thing  the  sea  won't  forgive.  One  day  I  was  alone 
on  the  foredeck,  getting  the  anchor  ready,  when  there  was  a 
hitch  in  the  cable.  And  then  a  thing  happened  that  I've 
never  known  before  or  since — my  feet  slipped  sheer  away 
from  under  me,  as  if  some  one  had  pulled  them.  I  came 
down  headlong,  and  the  anchor  tore  away  to  the  bottom  of 


74  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

the  sea,  taking  me  with  it.  My  finger  was  caught  between 
two  links  of  the  cable — there  was  no  getting  it  free.  I 
thought  to  myself,  'Not  this  time,  anyway,'  and  managed  to 
get  at  my  knife,  and  hacked  it  off.  It  didn't  seem  to  hurt 
much  while  I  was  in  the  water — but  when  I  came  up — the 
men — believe  me  or  not,  as  you  will,  but  they  started  back 
when  they  saw  my  face.  I  hurried  down  below — I  had  a  sort 
of  feeling  what  it  was.  And  I  tell  you,  sir,  there  was  the 
mark  of  death  in  my  face  when  I  looked;  the  mark  Fate 
puts  on  a  man  before  handing  him  over.  And  it  was  twenty- 
four  hours  before  it  passed,  off. ' ' 

Captain- Jantzen  laughed. 

"Since  then,  Fate's  left  me  alone.  Maybe  she  never  found 
out  how  I'd  cheated  her.  And  if  she  has  forgotten,  why, 
maybe  I  shall  live  to  be  an  old  man  after  all."  And  as  if 
repenting  his  levity,  the  little  captain  became  serious  once 
more. 

"All  the  same,  it's  not  right  to  joke  about  that  sort  of 
thing." 

Ormarr  had  listened  with  interest  to  the  captain's  story. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  asked : 

"How  long  have  you  been  captain  of  'Bj^rnen,'  Captain 
Jantzen  ? ' ' 

"Why,  it'll  be  twelve  years  this  spring."  And  in  a  tone 
of  some  resignation  he  went  on: 

"It's  not  likely  I'll  have  her  for  another  dozen  years. 
Though  I'd  like  to.  She's  a  fine  boat,  and  somehow  we  sort 
of  belong  to  one  another.  But  the  owner's  getting  on  now, 
and  his  health 's  not  what  it  might  be.  And  no  sons.  I  fancy 
the  other  shareholders  are  not  quite  pleased  with  things  as  it 
is." 

Ormarr  walked  up  to  the  captain,"  and  looking  straight  at 
him,  asked  abruptly: 

"What  about  buying  them  out?" 

Jantzen  started,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Ormarr. 

"I  mean  it." 

"Well — yes,  I  dare  say.  It's  a  limited  company.  The 
biggest  shareholder  is  the  owner — and  if  any  one  were  to 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  75 

buy  up  all  the  other  shares  on  the  quiet,  well,  there's  no 
saying  ..." 

Ormarr  and  the  captain  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become 
remarkably  intimate  with  each  other — so,  at  least,  it  seemed 
to  the  others  on  board. 

They  remained  for  a  long  time  in  the  captain 's  cabin,  bend- 
ing over  a  map  of  Iceland,  discussing  routes,  tariffs,  and 
traffic  in  a  half-whisper.  They  talked  of  nothing  but  how 
many  vessels  and  what  size  would  be  needed  if  one  company 
were  to  take  over  the  whole  of  the  goods  and  passenger  traffic 
between  Iceland-Denmark,  Iceland-Norway,  and  Iceland- 
Great  Britain. 

It  was  late  when  Ormarr  shook  hands  with  the  captain 
and  went  to  his  bunk,  with  the  parting  words : 

"Then  the  first  thing  you  have  to  do  is  to  buy  up  all  the 
shares  on  the  market.  After  that,  get  the  old  man  to  sell  his 
holding — but  to  me  and  no  one  else ! ' ' 

The  following  morning,  0rlygur  a  Borg  was  standing  on 
the  borders  of  his  land,  deep  in  thought.  He  had  dreamed  a 
strange  dream  the  night  before,  and  was  trying  hard  to 
remember  the  details.  One  thing  only  stood  out  plainly  in 
his  memory.  He  had  been  standing  on  this  very  spot,  a 
little  hill  just  outside  Borg,  one  day  towards  the  end  of  sum- 
mer. And  there  he  had  fought — with  what,  he  could  not 
say.  But  it  was  against  something  stronger  than  himself, 
something  which  would  overpower  him  unless  Ormarr,  his 
son,  came  to  his  aid.  Then  suddenly  he  had  seen  a  viking 
ship  rounding  the  point,  steering  straight  up  the  fjord.  The 
sight  of  the  vessel  gave  him  new  strength;  he  knew  that 
Ormarr  was  coming  to  help  him,  and  the  ship  was  sailing 
faster  than  any  he  had  ever  seen.  .  .  .  Here  the  dream  had 
ended  abruptly. 

0rlygur  stood  on  the  hill,  trying  hard  to  recall  more  of 
the  vision.  As  if  to  aid  his  memory,  he  looked  out  in  the 
direction  of  the  fjord.  .  .  . 

A  steamer  was  rounding  the  point. 

0rlygur  a  Borg  lost  no  time;  he  ran  to  the  stables,  and 


76  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

saddled  his  horse.  He  was  about  to  saddle  another  in  addi- 
tion, but  checked  himself — possibly  it  was  only  an  important 
message.  Anyhow,  instead  of  mounting,  he  had  a  sleigh 
brought  out,  and  drove  off  towards  the  snow-covered  valley 
at  full  speed,  reaching  the  trading  station  just  before 
"Bj^rnen"  came  in. 

Ormarr  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  his  father  among 
the  crowd  of  people  gathered  on  the  shore.  Most  of  those 
present  had  recognized  Ormarr  where  he  stood  on  the  bridge, 
and  there  was  a  general  surprise  at  his  appearance.  No  one 
had  expected  him.  Only  his  father  seemed  to  regard  his 
homecoming  as  natural,  and  showed  no  sign  of  astonishment. 

Ormarr  was  in  high  spirits  and  full  of  pleasant  anticipa- 
tion; he  shook  hands  right  and  left.  0rlygur  found  it  hard 
to  conceal  his  emotion  at  the  meeting. 

Ormarr  introduced  Captain  Jantzen  to  his  father,  but  the 
latter  spoke  only  a  few  words  to  the  captain;  he  seemed 
intent  on  getting  home  without  delay,  where  he  could  have 
his  son  to  himself. 

Before  taking  his  seat  in  the  sleigh,  Ormarr  took  the  captain 
aside : 

"Remember,"  he  said,  "you  must  get  everything  ready 
beforehand.  First  of  all,  a  detailed  scheme  and  tariff  rates, 
for  our  calculations'.  I  shall  be  here  all  winter.  After 
that,  I  am  going  to  England  and  France,  to  get  the  money. 
I  shall  get  it,  never  fear.  Anyhow,  I  shall  see  you  next  sum- 
mer in  Copenhagen.  And  then  we  can  set  to  work  in  earnest. 
Be  ready  for  a  struggle  when  the  time  comes — it  will  take 
some  doing,  but  we  can  do  it.  Au  revoir." 

On  the  way  out  to  Borg,  the  horse  was  allowed  to  choose 
its  own  pace ;  father  and  son  were  too  engrossed  in  their  talk 
to  trouble  about  anything  else. 

0rlygur  could  not  quite  understand  his  son's  attitude  to- 
wards music  and  fame — possibly  because  Ormarr  himself 
was  loth  to  lay  bare  all  the  trouble  of  his  mind.  Moreover, 
he  felt  a  different  man  already,  far  healthier  in  mind  and 
body,  after  the  last  few  days,  as  if  separated  by  a  wide 
gulf  from  the  Ormarr  who  had  left  Copenhagen  after  the 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  77 

scandal  at  the  Concert  Hall,  a  broken  man,  to  seek  rest  and 
idleness  in  his  own  country. 

0rlygur  could  not  altogether  grasp  his  son's  changed 
attitude  towards  the  question  of  his  musical  career,  which  had 
cost  ten  years  of  his  life  and  several  thousand  pounds.  But 
he  thoroughly  understood  and  approved  of  his  new  plan  for  a 
better  and  cheaper  and  more  reliable  service  of  steamers 
between  Iceland  and  abroad. 

Ormarr  pointed  out  the  advantage  of  having  an  independ- 
ent national  steamship  service,  and  0rlygur  at  once  perceived 
the  possibilities  of  the  scheme  for  furthering  the  development 
of  Iceland  commerce  and  industry.  The  idea  of  excluding 
other  countries  from  participating  here  appealed  to  him, 
and  gained  his  entire  support  for  the  scheme.  The  very 
thought  thrilled  the  old  chieftain's  heart.  Ay,  they  deserved 
no  better,  those  slack-minded,  selfish  traders — they  would 
only  be  reaping  the  results  of  their  own  shortcomings.  They 
should  no  longer  be  allowed  to  monopolize  trade,  send  up 
prices,  make  unreasonable  profits,  and  do  what  they  liked 
generally.  There  would  be  an  end  of  their  ill-found,  ram- 
shackle vessels,  coming  and  going  at  their  own  convenience 
without  the  slightest  regard  for  the  public  or  their  own  adver- 
tised times.  It  was  war — and  he  rejoiced  at  it.  No  question 
but  that  the  people  of  Borg  must  win  in  the  end. 

As  they  were  nearing  home,  Ormarr  said: 

"I  am  going  to  stay  here  this  winter,  father,  before  I  set 
out  again — Heaven  knows  how  long  it  may  be  before  I  come 
back  after  that.  I  should  dike  to  live  to  enjoy  one  more  spring 
here  in  Iceland.  But  after  that,  I  must  go  abroad;  work, 
work.  It  will  take  best  part  of  the  summer,  I  reckon,  to 
raise  the  money — it  will  need  a  lot  of  money." 

0rlygur  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  landscape,  and  ans- 
wered : 

"Well,  well — I  suppose  you  are  right." 

For  a  while  no  sound  was  heard  but  the  beat  of  the  horse's 
hoofs  and  the  creaking  of  the  sleigh.  Then  0rlygur  said  in  a 
half -whisper : 

"But — we  have  some  money  here,  you  know,  ourselves." 


78  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Ormarr  looked  at  his  father  keenly,  and  after  a  moment's 
thought  he  said: 

"Look  here,  father,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  thought 
of  doing  about  the  money  part  of  the  business.  I  want  to  get 
the  money  without  offering  shares.  It  will  be  difficult,  I 
dare  say.  But  I  must  be  independent  here ;  I  cannot  bear  to 
be  bound  by  considerations  of  credit,  or  other  men 's  interests, 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  It  would  spoil  the  whole  thing. 
The  business  must  be  my  property;  I  will  not  have  a  thing 
that  can  be  ruined  by  others  after  I  have  built  it  up.  But 
if  I  should  be  unable  to  get  the  capital  in  the  way  I  want  it 
— why,  then,  I  may  come  to  you.  Provided,  of  course,  I 
can  be  sure  of  running  no  risk  in  the  investment.  I  owe 
you  too  much  already. — My  inheritance,  you  say?  I  have 
not  come  into  the  property  yet.  But  suppose  we  put  it  that 
way ;  that  I  owe  so  much  to  the  estate.  Anyhow,  I  owe  it ;  it 
is  money  that  must  be  paid,  if  things  do  not  go  altogether 
against  us.  For  the  present,  I  must  fall  back  on  you.  But 
I  shall  not  want  much — nothing  like  what  I  have  been  draw- 
ing up  to  now.  And  I  am  proud  that  you  are  willing  to 
help  me,  when  I  know  I  must  have  disappointed  you  by  what 
I  have  done  up  to  now."' 

"I  trust  you,  Ormarr,"  his  father  said.  "I  do  not  quite 
understand,  but  I  feel  sure  you  were  obliged  to  act  as  you  did. 
The  rest  does  not  concern  me.  I  know  that  you  are  honest 
and  sincere,  and  I  know  that  your  aim  now  is  not  a  selfish 
one." 

For  a  time  no  more  was  said ;  both  men  seemed  anxious  to 
let  it  appear  that  their  minds  were  occupied  with  anything 
rather  than  with  each  other.  But  for  all  his  apparent  calm- 
ness, Ormarr  was  overwhelmed  with  gratitude  to  his  father; 
to  the  fate  that  had  given  him  such  a  father ;  given  him  Borg 
for  his  inheritance,  and  suffered  him  to  be  born  a  son  of  this 
little  nation.  0rlygur,  on  his  part,  concealed  beneath  an 
expression  of  indifference  a  feeling  of  pride  and  love  for  his 
son. 

As  the  sleigh  drove  up  in  front  of  the  house,  all  the  servants 
came  out  to  welcome  Ormarr,  with  a  heartiness  that  showed 


ORMARR  ©"RLYGSSON  79 

plainly  enough  for  all  their  quiet  manner.  A  tall  girl  of 
about  thirteen,  with  ilovely  flaxen  hair  flowing  loose  about  her 
shoulders,  appeared;  this  was  Gudrun,  a  daughter  of  Pall  a 
Seyru,  now  adopted  by  0rlygur.  Ketill  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen;  Ormarr  asked  where  his  brother  was. 

0rlygur  smiled. 

"Have  you  forgotten  already?  I  wrote  you  in  my  last 
letter  that  I  had  sent  him  to  the  school  at  Reykjavik.  He 
wants  to  enter  the  Church,  I  understand.  And  I  have  been 
thinking  that  it  would  not  be  a  bad  idea  later  on,  if  he  took 
over  the  living  here.  If,  then,  you  decide  to  live  abroad,  as 
seems  likely,  and  give  up  the  estate  here,  then  he  could  man- 
age that  as  well.  For  the  present,  I  have  my  health  and 
strength,  and  hope  to  look  after  it  myself  for  many  years. 
We  shall  see." 

Of  Ormarr 's  stay  at  Borg  that  winter  there  is  little  to  be 
said.  Every  Sunday  the  people  of  the  parish  came  up  to 
hear  him  play  the  violin.  He  was  delighted  to  play  to  them, 
and  touched  at  their  grateful,  almost  devotional,  reception  of 
his  playing. 

Spring  came.  The  snow  melted,  and  the  rivers  sent  floods 
of  muddy  water  and  blue  ice  towards  the  sea.  A  great  unrest 
came  over  Ormarr,  and  he  left  earlier  than  he  had  planned. 
So,  after  all,  he  missed  the  soft  purity  of  the  Iceland  spring, 
the  beautiful  white  nights  with  the  glow  of  light  on  the 
fields  and  ridges  pearled  wih  dew.  He  missed  the  sight  of 
the  butterflies  fluttering  in  gaudy  flocks,  and  the  birds  among 
the  little  hillocks  where  their  nests  lay  hid. 

He  had  already  felt  the  grip  of  spring  at  his  heart  when 
he  saw  the  wild  swans  and  other  fowl  heading  for  the  still 
frozen  heights  farther  inland,  driving  their  wedges  through 
the  air,  and  crying  aloud  in  joy  of  life.  And  that  same 
viking  spirit  which  had  driven  his  fathers  before  him  came 
on  him  now  and  drove  him  abroad  in  haste. 

As  he  left  Iceland  for  the  second  time,  his  father  stood 
on  the  pier  with  moist  eyes.  0rlygur  remained  there,  watch- 
ing till  nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  the  vessel  but  a  few  grey 


80  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

wisps  of  smoke.  Then  he  tore  himself  away,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  rode  home,  deep  in  thought. 

If  his  blessing  carried  any  weight,  then  surely  matters 
would  go  well  with  his  son. 

He  slept  but  ill  that  night;  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  pre- 
vailed upon  Ormarr  to  accept  the  money  from  him.  It  would 
have  saved  much  trouble,  and,  at  any  rate,  a  certain  amount 
of  time. 

If  only  Ormarr  had  come  to  him,  rather  than  procure  the 
funds  he  needed  from  others,  and  upon  doubtful  terms.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  cold,  pure  light  of  an  autumn  morning  found  the 
electric!  lamps  still  burning  in  a  villa  by  the  Sound. 
It  was  the  residence  of  Ormarr  0rlygsson,  com- 
pany director,  a  man  well  known  in  the  business  world,  and 
bearer  of  sundry  decorations. 

The  light  shone  through  the  rose-coloured  curtains  of  the 
French  windows  opening  on  to  a  verandah  facing  the  sea. 
The  room  was  large;  the  arrangement  marked  its  owner  as 
a  bachelor.  It  served  as  office,  sitting-room,  and  study.  The 
wall  opposite  the  window  was  occupied  entirely  by  shelves 
filled  with  books:  works  of  reference  and  lighter  literature. 
The  other  walls,  each  with  a  heavily  curtained  door,  were 
hung  with  paintings,  all  representing  Icelandic  landscapes. 
In  one  corner  was  a  heavy  piece  of  bronze  statuary,  likewise 
Icelandic,  "The  Outlaw."  The  floor  was  covered  with  an 
Oriental  carpet. 

Ormarr  sat  at  the  big  writing-table,  his  head  buried  in  his 
hands.  Lights  burned  in  a  crystal  globe  above  his  head,  and 
in  a  reading-lamp  at  his  elbow.  The  glow  from  the  green 
shade  of  the  latter,  blending  with  the  light  of  day,  created  a 
weird  effect. 

Ormarr  had  been  sitting  at  his  desk  the  whole  night,  going 
through  piles  of  accounts  and  business  papers. 

For  some  time  he  sat  thus,  motionless.  When  at  last  he 
looked  up,  it  was  plain  that  thirteen  years  of  work  as  a  busi- 
ness man  had  left  their  mark  on  him.  His  face  was  thinner ; 
his  dark,  rough  hair  was  longer  than  was  customary  among 
men  on  the  bourse,  and  the  fact  gave  a  touch  of  independence 
to  his  otherwise  faultless  appearance. 

His  expression  was  changed;  the  large,  dark  eyes  were 
restless — a  dreamy,  far-away  look  alternating  rapidly  with 

81 


82  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

a  glance  of  keen  alertness.  When  alone,  his  look  varied 
continually  with  his  varying  moods,  but  in  the  presence  of 
others  he  kept  rigid  control  over  his  features;  the  severest 
scrutiny  could  detect  nothing  of  the  workings  of  his  mind. 
Two  deep  furrows  slanted  down  on  either  side  the  mouth, 
completing  the  impression  of  resolute  firmness  combined  with 
melancholy  resignation  and  bitterness. 

As  he  looked  round  the  room,  his  eyes  betrayed  the  trouble 
in  his  mind.  He  glanced  deliberately  at  each  of  the  things 
around  him,  works  of  art  and  furnishings,  as  if  in  farewell, 
dwelling  now  and  then  on  some  single  item  as  if  trying  to  fix 
it  in  his  mind. 

Gradually  he  began  to  realize  that  his  first  impression  of 
the  previous  day  was  correct — he  was  a  stranger  in  his  own 
place.  And  he  shuddered  at  the  thought.  Unconsciously 
he  picked  up  the  cable  he  had  received  the  day  before, 
smoothed  it  out  before  him,  and  read  it  over  with  bitter, 
scornful  eyes. 

"What  a  fool  I  have  been!"  he  muttered.  "I  might  have 
known  ..."  And  he  laughed— a  choking,  unnatural  laugh, 
and  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  Languidly  he  drew  back  the 
curtain,  opened  the  window,  and  stepped  out  on  to  the  ver- 
andah. 

Leaning  on  the  railing,  he  looked  out  over  the  shore,  with 
the  troubled  sea  and  the  Swedish  coast  beyond.  The  view 
had  calmed  him  often,  but  there  was  no  rest  in  it  now;  he 
looked  at  it  all  impatiently,  no  longer  able  to  find  any  comfort 
in  visions. 

All  was  changed  now. 

His  clothes  irked  him ;  his  hands  were  soiled  with  dust  from 
the  papers  he  had  been  busied  with ;  a  general  sense  of  bodily 
discomfort  pervaded  him.  And  as  if  to  escape  from  his 
emotional  self,  he  left  the  room  hurriedly;  a  bath  and  a 
change  of  clothes  would  be  something  at  least.  .  .  . 

The  housekeeper  received  her  master's  orders  to  serve  lunch 
on  the  verandah  with  some  surprise.  It  was  a  way  of  hers 
to  appear  mildly  surprised  at  things  and  today  there 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  83 

certainly  seeemed  some  reason  for  astonishment :  for  thirteen 
years  her  master  had  never  been  at  home  to  a  meal  at  that 
hour  of  the  day— why  was  he  not  at  the  office  as  usual? 
Ormarr's  manner,  however,  forebade  all  questioning,  and 
she  did  not  venture  to  ask  if  anything  were  wrong. 

Ormarr  went  to  the  telephone,  and  rung  up  the  office, 
speaking  coolly  enough. 

''That  you  Busck?  Good  morning.  Captain  Jantzen 
there  ?  Morning,  Captain.  ...  No,  nothing  wrong,  but  some- 
thing has  happened.  Yes  .  .  .  listen!  You  must  hand  over 
'Bjornen'  to  the  first  mate  this  voyage.  .  .  .  "What?  Lose 
half  an  hour?  Can't  be  helped;  I  want  you  here.  Come 
out  here  at  once,  please,  but  first  get  the  chief  clerk  to  tell 
you  what  I  want  done  about  the  shares,  and  do  as  he  says. 
Then  out  here  to  me  as  quick  as  you  can.  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it  when  you  arrive.  Right — good-bye." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  telephone  bell  rang.  Ormarr  took 
up  the  receiver  with  a  gesture  of  annoyance,  but  on  recogniz- 
ing the  speaker's  voice,  his  manner  changed. 

"Yes — yes.  Morning,  Ketill.  111?  No,  not  a  bit.  Are 
you  both  there?  Well,  come  out  and  have  lunch  with  me 
instead.  Don't  know  what  we've  got  in  the  house,  but  come 
anyway.  Eh?  No,  not  a  bit.  I  have  been  rather  busy — 
up  all  night.  .  .  .  No,  never  can  sleep  in  the  daytime.  Bight, 
then.  Au  revoir." 

•  •  •  •  • 

Ketill,  now  getting  on  for  thirty,  was  already  in  orders, 
and  was  to  be  presented  to  the  living  of  Hof  in  Hofsf  jordur 
in  the  autumn,  Sera  Daniel  being  about  to  retire  on  account 
of  age. 

The  original  plan  had  been  that  Ketill  should  have  spent  a 
few  days  only  in  Copenhagen  when  going  abroad  in  the 
spring,  on  his  way  to  Switzerland  and  Italy,  returning  via, 
England.  But  Ketill,  who  had  preferred  staying  at  an 
hotel  rather  than  at  his  brother's,  had  soon  found  friends, 
largely  owing  to  his  brother's  introductions.  One  of  the 
acquaintances  thus  made  was  that  of  a  banker,  Vivild,  whose 
daughter  Alma  had  quickly  captured  Ketill's  heart. 


84  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

His  tour  of  Europe,  then,  came  to  consist  of  but  a  few 
short  trips,  with  Copenhagen  as  his  headquarters.  Ormarr 
had  been  surprised  at  this,  but  his  brother  gave  him  no 
enlightenment  as  to  the  attraction  which  drew  him  constantly 
back  to  the  capital.  Until  one  fine  day  Ketill  announced  his 
engagement  and  forthcoming  marriage. 

Ormarr  had  always  looked  on  Alma  as  a  tender  plant,  that 
could  never  be  transplanted  and  live;  the  news  surprised 
him.  But  he  made  no  comment.  Without  realizing  it  him- 
self, he  had  been  deeply  in  love  with  dainty,  sweet-natured 
Alma,  but  for  no  other  reason  apparently  than  a  sense  of  his 
own  unworthiness,  had  said  no  word  of  it  to  her.  And  here 
was  his  brother,  holding  the  blossom  himself,  and  tantalizingly 
inviting  him  to  admire  its  sweetness. 

The  part  of  brother-in-law  was  by  no  means  a  pleasant 
prospect  to  Ormarr,  but  he  reconciled  himself  to  the  thought. 

Ketill — Sera  Ketill,  as  we  should  now  call  him — was  young 
and  good-looking,  with  a  pleasant  and  genial  bearing.  At 
times  Ormarr  could  not  help  feeling  that  there  was  something 
a  trifle  insincere  in  his  brother's  geniality.  Still,  Ketill 
was  a  nice  enough  fellow  to  all  outward  seeming,  albeit  a  trifle 
stouter  of  build  than  need  be. 

There  was  never  any  exchange  of  confidence  between  the 
two  brothers;  they  knew,  indeed,  but  little  of  each  other. 
Ormarr  was  conscious  of  an  involuntary  dislike  of  Ketill ;  he 
tried  in  vain  to  subdue  the  feeling;  it  remained  unaltered. 
Ketill,  on  the  other  hand,  appeared  not  to  notice  any  lack 
of  brotherly  love  and  sympathy.  Neither  of  the  two  men 
realized  that  Ketill's  nature  not  only  did  not  invite,  but  ren- 
dered impossible  any  real  confidence. 

The  first  to  notice  this,  albeit  but  vaguely  to  begin  with,  was 
Alma.  The  discovery  troubled  her  a  little,  but  she  let  it  pass. 

From  all  appearances,  the  union  was  a  promising  one,  and 
the  wedding  was  looked  forward  to  by  both  parties  with 
equal  anticipation.  The  ceremony  was  to  take  place  on  the 
day  before  Ketill's  entering  upon  his  new  dignity,  and  the 
bride  was  to  accompany  him  to  their  new  home. 

Alma  and  Ketill  arrived  at  Ormarr 's  house  half  an  hour 


ORMABR  0RLTGSSON  85 

after  Ketill  had  rung  up.  Alma  promptly  went  out  to  assist 
the  housekeeper  with  the  lunch. 

The  brothers,  standing  by  the  writing-table  in  the  sitting- 
room,  lit  their  cigarettes.  Sera  Ketill  looked  with  uncon- 
cealed scrutiny  at  his  brother 's  face,  and  with  his  usual  affec- 
tation of  heartiness  said  at  once: 

"Well,  if  you're  not  ill,  you  look  precious  near  it.  What's 
gone  wrong  now?  Business?" 

" That's  as  you  like  to  take  it." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  Nothing  important,  I 
suppose. ' ' 

"Important? — well,  in  a  way,  it  is."  Ormarr  passed  the 
wire  across  to  his  brother,  who  read  it  through. 

"Well,  what  does  it  mean?" 

"It  means  that  since  yesterday  I  am — a  millionaire." 

"The  devil  you  are — Heaven  forgive  me!  Well,  you  are 
in  luck.  How  did  you  manage  it?  (Can't  you  tell  a  fellow 
how  it's  done?  A  millionaire!  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  .  .  .  Lord 
forgive  me!  It's  all  right,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  it's  right  enough." 

"Well  .  .  .  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?  Extend 
the  business  .  .  .  new  routes?  ...  If  you  take  my  advice, 
you'll  be  a  bit  careful.  Buy  up  the  land  in  Iceland — that's  a 
sound  investment.  Buy  up  Hofsfjordur.  .  .  .  What  a 
lucky  devil!  .  .  .  Lord  forgive  me!  ...  But  what  are  you 
going  to  do  now?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  anyhow,  you  can  do  things  in  earnest  now. 
Monopolize  the  trade  of  Iceland.  You  control  the  traffic 
already;  the  people  know  you,  and  trust  you — that's  worth 
a  lot  in  itself.  They're  not  an  easy  lot  to  win — that  way,  but 
once  you've  got  them  ...  if  you  manage  things  properly, 
you're  all  right  there.  Ormarr,  you're  in  luck.  Look  at  me 
now — in  orders.  And  even  if  I  get  the  estate  .  .  .  The  old 
man — father,  I  mean — he's  getting  childish  already.  Gives 
things  away — money,  live  stock,  food — you  never  saw.  And 
he's  struck  off  all  outstanding  debts  the  peasants  owed  him 
— it's  whittling  down  the  power  of  Borg  to  nothing.  And 


86  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

we  ought  to  have  kept  it  up.  Ever  since  you  paid  back  the 
money  you  had  from  him — it  wasn't  quite  fair  to  me,  you 
know,  his  letting  you  have  all  that — but  anyhow,  since  you 
paid  him  back,  he  seems  to  think  he's  a  millionaire,  and  can 
throw  money  about  as  he  likes.  Well,  well,  I  'm  fixed  up  now, 
I  suppose.  But  you — millionaire,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
now?" 

"I'll  tell  you  .  .  .  No,  it's  no  use  trying  to  explain  ..." 
"Yes,  yes,  go  on.    What  is  it?     New  speculations?  I'm 
interested  in  that  sort  of  thing ;  go  on. ' ' 
"No,  it's  not  speculation.     I've  had  enough  of  that." 
"Don't  you  believe  it!    When  things  turn  out  like  they 
have  done  here.     To  tell  the  truth — I've  been  thinking  of  a 
little  flutter  on  my  own  account.     Old  man  Vivild's  put  me 
on  to  a  good  thing  .  .  .  but  it  seems  you  know  the  trick  of  it, 
so  ..." 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't.  Stick  to  Vivild  if  you're 
going  in  for  that  sort  of  thing.  He's  a  sound  man,  and  a 
clever  one." 

"Well,  well,  as  you  please.  But  I  can't  get  over  it.  ... 
A  millionaire!  .  .  .  the  dev Lord  forgive  me!" 

After  lunch  the  three  sat  together  in  a  corner  of  the  garden 
— Ketill  and  Alma  side  by  side  on  a  bench,  Ormarr  a  little 
apart. 

The  conversation  flagged  somewhat;  a  few  desultory  at- 
tempts fell  flat. 

Suddenly  Ormarr  realized  that  his  brother's  manner  was 
different  when  Alma  was  present.  He  had  noticed  some- 
thing before  ...  a  curious  abrupt  change  of  mood,  from 
lively  jocularity  to  a  sort  of  dreamy,  thoughtful  silence. 
But  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  Alma  that 
brought  about  the  change.  Could  it  be  a  mask?  In  any 
case,  the  mask,  if  mask  it  were,  suited  him  a  great  deal  better 
than  his  normal  appearance. 

And  as  he  watched  them,  Alma  with  her  brown  hair  and 
bright  dark  eyes  and  Ketill  with  his  heavy  face  and  priestly 


ORMAEB  0RLYGSSON  87 

air  of  calm,  a  feeling  of  resentment  rose  in  him  against  his 
brother. 

"I  love  coming  out  here,"  said  Alma  suddenly.  "It's  so 
different  to  the  atmosphere  at  home — business  .  .  .  Ugh." 

Ketill  smiled.    But  Ormarr  laughed  and  said: 

"I  should  have  thought  one  would  feel  more  at  home  in  the 
atmosphere  one  grew  up  in.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you 
are  wrong  about  the  atmosphere  here — it  is  all  business  really, 
and  nothing  else." 

"Father  says  you  are  not  really  a  business  man.  And  I 
think  he  is  right. ' ' 

"The  facts  would  seem  to  prove  your  father  wrong,  Froken 
Vivild." 

"He  says  you  are — extraordinary.  And  that  you've  a 
lucky  sense." 

"Maybe.  It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  I  fancy  success  in 
business  is  largely  a  matter  of  luck.  Do  you  know  what  has 
helped  me  most  all  along?  Well,  before  I  started  in  business, 
I  was  well  known,  in  a  way,  from  my  efforts  in  another  direc- 
tion. Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  on  it — people  believed  me 
mad.  And,  consequently,  everything  I  set  out  to  do  was 
regarded  as  more  madness.  It  was  the  best  thing  that  could 
have  been — and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  the  people  who 
thought  so.  .  .  ." 

A  little  later,  Ormarr  saw  his  guests  to  the  gate,  and  stood 
watching  them  as  they  left,  arm  in  arm. 

"A  lovely  creature,"  he  thought.  "The  graceful  way  she 
walks.  .  .  .  But  a  child,  no  more.  And  he — I  wonder  how 
he  will  treat  her.  I'm  afraid  she  will  have  a  hard  time  of 
it  with  him.  Perhaps  when  all's  said  and  done,  she  would 
have  been  better  off  with  me." 

He  stood  watching  the  dainty  figure  as  it  receded,  noting 
the  graceful  curves,  and  the  mass  of  brown  hair  under  the 
wide-brimmed  hat. 

"A  dream,"  he  mused.  "One  of  life's  lovely 
dreams.  ..." 

He  closed  the  gate  and  walked  up  towards  the  house. 


88  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"No  one  to  stop  it  ...  life  must  run  its  course.  I  dare 
not  interfere — I  may  be  wrong.  And — in  my  case,  it  is  too 
late  now." 

An  hour  later,  Captain  Jantzen  was  sitting  in  Ormarr's 
room,  in  his  usual  place,  an  arm-chair  at  one  end  of  the 
writing-table. 

Ormarr  passed  across  a  box  of  cigars,  and  rang  for  wine. 

Captain  Jantzen  was  obviously  ill  at  ease. 

""Well,  sir,"  he  asked,  "good  news,  I  hope?" 

"No,  Jantzen;  bad  news."  Ormarr  hunted  out  the  tele- 
gram he  had  shown  Ketill,  and  passed  it  over.  Jantzen  read 
it  through  hurriedly,  and  glanced  up  quickly  at  Ormarr. 

"If  I  remember  rightly,  we're  on  the  right  side  here." 

"That  is  so." 

"Why,  then — we  are  safe.  This  gives  us  a  free  hand  now 
— we  can  cover  all  outstanding  loans,  we  can  out-distance  all 
competition." 

"Yes — and  it  puts  me  out  of  the  game,  Jantzen." 

"How?     I  don't  understand.  ..." 

"No,  I'm  afraid  you'd  hardly  understand.  ..." 

"Well,  sir,  I  confess  as  much.  But  there  must  surely  be 
something  behind  this — I  don't  see.  ..." 

"Only  that  victory  has  put  me  out  of  action,  that  is  all. 
Ever  since  I  started  this  thing,  it  has  only  been  the  difficulty 
of  carrying  it  through  that  kept  me  to  it.  Now  that  is  dis- 
posed of,  I  collapse.  I  can't  live  in  that  fruitful  sort  of 
country  where  you've  only  to  plough  and  change  your  crops 
now  and  again — I  can't  work  at  a  thing  that  runs  by  itself. 
It's  not  only  that  it  doesn't  interest  me;  I  haven't  the  power 
of  self-deception  it  requires.  I'm  perfectly  aware  of  that. 
I  feel  at  the  moment  like  a  bow  that  has  been  strung  and 
drawn  to  its  limit,  and  shot  its  bolt  where  it  should.  I  've  no 
use  for  repetition.  And,  take  my  word  for  it,  if  luck  has 
favoured  me  up  to  now — in  business,  I  mean — it  would  surely 
fail  me  after  this.  Once  before  in  my  life  I  have  suffered  the 
defeat  of  victory.  And  then,  I  chanced  on  you — it  was  Fate 
that  led  me  to  a  new  task ;  and  with  it,  at  the  end,  a  new  vie- 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  89 

tory — a  new  defeat.  True,  the  result  has  been  somewhat 
different  this  time.  But  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  I  have 
done  with  the  task — or  it  has  done  with  me." 

Jantzen  watched  the  speaker's  face  intently;  he  remem- 
bered the  pale  features  of  a  younger  man,  who  had  stood 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  on  the  bridge  of  his  vessel,  at  the  first 
sight  of  Iceland  from  the  sea.  It  was  a  face  he  had  come  to 
love — so  strong  it  could  be  at  times,  and  at  times  so  weak. 

And  a  deep  despondency,  such  as  he  had  only  known  in 
lonely  watches  far  at  sea  by  night,  filled  his  heart. 

Ormarr  was  absolutely  calm  and  unmoved  to  all  appear- 
ances; he  seemed  to  have  no  regrets.  He  emptied  his  glass 
and  nodded  to  Jantzen. 

"There's  no  harm  done,  that  I  can  see.  What  do  you  say 
to  taking  over  the  management  yourself,  'Jantzen?" 

"Impossible.  I  could  never  look  after  a  business  like  that 
—I'm  not  built  for  it." 

"Nonsense,  Captain.  Don't  tell  me  you  couldn't  run  a 
line  of  steamers.  The  idea!  I  suppose  the  truth  of  it  is 
you're  unwilling  to  give  up  your  ship." 

"That's  true.  I've  captained  'Bjjzfrnen'  now  for  five-and- 
twenty  years. ' ' 

"But  the  business  is  more  important  than  a  single  vessel. 
Let's  stick  to  the  matter  in  hand — the  business  itself.  I 
can  no  longer  manage  it  myself.  And  you  are  the  only  man 
I  can  trust  to  take  over.  You  must  take  it  over.  As  for 
'Bj^rnen' — we  can  easily  find  another  man.  But  if  the  busi- 
ness itself  were  now  to  pass  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  all 
our  work  will  have  been  in  vain ;  we  should,  in  fact,  have  done 
more  harm  than  good. — I  suppose  you  will  say  that  it  is 
my  duty  to  carry  on.  That's  reasonable  enough — as  long 
as  the  course  you  propose  is  possible.  But  it  is  not  possible 
any  longer.  It  is  simply  this :  I  can  control  myself  only  to 
a  limited  degree ;  that  you  may  take  for  a  simple  fact.  And 
the  limit  is  reached.  What  I  am  to  do  now  I  do  not  know. 
First  of  all,  I  shall  go  home — it  is  long  since  I  was  there. 
Anything  in  the  shape  of  rest,  or  interruption,  is  dangerous 
to  me,  and  that  is  why  I  have  not  been  home  to  see  my  father 


90  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

for  thirteen  years.  But  something  tells  me  that  he  needs  me 
now,  though  I  have  no  idea  in  what  way  I  can  be  of  use. 
Never  mind.  I  am  subject  to  my  instincts;  to  defy  them 
would  be  a  crime  against  myself — perhaps  against  a  higher 
power.  We  are  both  of  us  somewhat  superstitious,  you  and 
I.  Anyhow,  to  come  to  the  point.  You,  Captain  Jantzen, 
will  now  acquire  this  business  by  purchase." 

" Purchase?  Now  you  are  joking.  I  might  perhaps 
manage  the  business,  if  there's  no  other  way.  ..." 

"That  won't  do.  You  must  buy  it  outright.  As  to  terms, 
I  shall  be  your  only  creditor,  and  you  won't  find  me  a  hard 
one  to  deal  with. ' ' 

"But — by  that  arrangement,  the  management — the  busi- 
ness itself — will  be  in  Danish  hands. ' ' 

"Where  did  you  learn  your  trade,  Captain?  On  the  coasts 
of  Iceland — working  for  a  people  not  your  own.  And  you 
will  admit  that  you  have  more  than  a  little  sympathy  with 
that  little  island  and  its  people,  obstinate  though  they  may  be 
at  times.  Also,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  my  countrymen 
to  realize  that  they  need  not  always  look  upon  the  Danes  as 
enemies." 

Ormarr  took  up  his  glass.     "Well,  here's  to  the  venture!" 

Captain  Jantzen 's  hand  trembled  slightly,  and  he  spilt  a 
few  red  drops  on  the  costly  carpet  as  he  drank. 

' '  Since  you  will  have  it  so,  why,  let  it  be.  But  I  'm  sorry 
about  ' 


CHAPTER  VII 

ONE  evening  towards  the  end  of  summer,  two  people 
were   seated  in  the   room   at   Borg  which   served 
0rlygur  as  bedroom  and  sitting-room.     They  were 
an  old  man,  grey-haired  and  stooping,  and  a  pale-faced  young 
woman. 

The  last  few  years  had  left  their  mark  on  0rlygur  a  Borg. 
The  stately  bearing  and  alertness  which  had  distinguished 
him  in  days  gone  by,  had  given  place  to  a  listlessness  and  an 
expression  of  gloom.  There  was  little  of  the  old  masterfulness 
in  the  man  who  sat  now  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  staring  at  the 
ruddy  flicker  of  a  tallow  candle.  His  eyes  were  no  longer 
keen  and  bright,  but  dull  and  spiritless,  as  at  the  present 
moment,  or  at  times  wandering  anxiously,  as  if  seeking  aid 
against  some  -threatening  peril. 

The  young  woman  seated  near  him  was  finely  built,  with 
a  wealth  of  flaxen  hair,  but  seemed  in  ill-health  and  troubled 
in  mind.  Her  whole  bearing  was  one  of  resignation  and  de- 
spair. Her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping ;  dark  rings  showed  up 
beneath  them  from  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks — the  signs  of 
restless  nights  and  sad  thoughts. 

Twelve  strokes  from  the  big  upright  clock  broke  the  silence, 
and  startled  0rlygur  from  his  musings.  He  glanced  at  the 
bowed  form  of  the  woman,  and  then  at  a  letter  which  lay  on 
the  table. 

Once  more  he  conned  the  sentence  which  had  brought  such 
pain  to  himself  and  his  adopted  daughter — as  if  to  make  sure 
there  had  been  no  mistake.  No,  it  was  right  enough:  "I 
am  engaged  to  a  girl  I  met  here  this  summer  .  .  .  Alma 
.  .  .  daughter  of  ...  Married  in  a  fortnight,  just  before  I 
leave,  so  you  can  expect  us  both.  ..." 

The  letter  was  from  his  son  Ketill. 

91 


92  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

And  there,  before  him,  sat  the  woman  that  same  Ketill  had 
ruined — and  her  state  would  soon  be  evident  to  all. 

Some  time  back  the  girl's  pale  face  and  mournful  bearing 
had  moved  0rlygur  to  question  her,  and  he  had  learned  the 
cause  from  her  own  mouth.  Buna,  as  she  was  called  by  all 
on  the  place,  was  at  least  as  deeply  attached  to  0rlygur  as 
to  her  real  father,  Pall  a  Seyru.  And  it  had  not  been  difficult 
for  her  to  confide  in  him.  The  truth  had  come  as  a  terrible 
shock  to  the  old  man,  but  both  had  consoled  themselves  with 
the  thought  that  Ketill  at  least  had  no  intention  of  leaving 
her  thus  betrayed;  that  he  would  behave  as  an  honourable 
man.  If  not — why,  0rlygur  would  see  that  he  did  so. 

But  now,  all  unexpectedly,  that  consolation  was  destroyed, 
leaving  a  dark  future  indeed  ahead. 

Runa's  trouble  was  not  the  only  thing  he  had  to  bear;  there 
were  other  matters  that  seemed  to  bode  no  good.  And  all 
were  more  or  less  connected  with  his  son  Ketill;  Ketill,  who 
was  to  inherit  the  estate  and  maintain  the  honourable  tra- 
ditions of  Borg. 

To  begin  with,  things  had  looked  well  enough;  excellent, 
indeed,  in  every  way.  The  estate  had  grown  richer  since 
Ormarr  had  repaid  the  'loans  made  to  him,  and  the  whole  trade 
of  the  district  was  in  the  hands  of  0rlygur's  trusted  men. 
The  place  was  flourishing — thanks  largely  to  0r.lygur's  mag- 
nanimity in  cancelling  debts  that  proved  too  much  of  a  burden 
— and  the  general  state  of  affairs  was  healthy  and  promising. 
Then,  in  addition  to  the  good  name  which  Ketill  would  in- 
herit, there  was  his  position  in  holy  orders.  Altogether,  the 
outlook  for  the  family  was  one  of  dignity  and  honour. 

Now,  things  looked  otherwise.  Some  months  before, 
0rlygur  had  begun  to  learn  something  of  Ketill's  true  nature; 
his  selfishness  and  meanness;  to  hand  over  the  estate  to  him 
seemed  less  advisable  now  than  he  had  thought.  Still,  it 
should  doubtless  be  possible  to  make  him  realize  the  duties 
and  responsibilities  of  his  position;  to  persuade  him  on 
matters  where  any  danger  threatened. 

But  the  new  development  had  raised  an  issue  of  a  far  more 
serious  character.  Once  it  were  known  abroad  that  the 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  93 

master  of  Borg — as  Ketill  in  time  would  be — had  deliberately 
ruined  a  young  girl, — a  girl,  moreover,  under  the  protection 
of  his  father's  roof, — and  had  thereafter  married  another, 
probably  for  selfish  considerations  also,  then  the  good  name 
of  the  family,  jealously  guarded  and  built  up  through  centu- 
ries, would  be  destroyed  as  by  a  flood.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
fortunes  of  Borg  were  on  the  verge  of  ruin. 

0rlygur  thought  of  these  things — and  the  idea  of  disinher- 
iting Ketill,  at  any  rate  as  regarded  succession  to  the  estate, 
crossed  his  mind.  If  only  he  himself  could  be  sure  of  living 
long  enough,  then  he  might  perhaps  make  Runa  or  her  child 
his  heir.  The  child  would  after  all  be  his  own  grandchild, 
with  the  blood  of  his  race  in  its  veins. 

But  as  he  sat,  his  thoughts  and  plans  faded  to  mere  dreams 
and  aimless  desires.  The  future  was  too  hard  for  him  to  face. 

Runa  sat  trying  to  pray,  her  lips  moving  without  a  sound, 
to  frame  the  opening  sentence  of  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

The  man  she  had  loved  was  far  away  in  a  foreign  land — 
at  that  very  moment,  perhaps,  he  held  another  woman  in  his 
arms. 

"Our  Father  .  .  ." 

He  had  sworn  that  he  loved  her.  Neither  had  spoken  of 
marriage — she  had  not  spoken  of  it  because  she  had  never 
doubted  him. 

"Our  Father  which  art  .  .  ." 

He  had  never  written  to  her — not  a  line.  It  was  a  cruel 
blow  to  her  to  realize  that  he  had  never  loved  her — and  yet 
she  bore  within  her  the  seed  of  life  he  had  planted.  And  her 
whole  future  now  was  ruined  and  desolate.  .  .  . 

"Our  father  ,  .  ." 

But  she  could  not  pray.  A  flood  of  thoughts  streamed  into 
her  mind — memories  of  mild  spring  evenings  in  the  past  and 
fears  for  her  present  position  in  one  confusion.  Her  brain 
could  not  set  either  prayer  or  thought  into  form. 

Orlygur  rose  and  came  over  to  her ;  he  tried  to  comfort  her, 
but  found  no  words.  One  thing  only  he  knew:  reparation 
must  be  made,  at  whatever  cost. 

Sera  Ketill  was  far  from  pleased  to  learn  that  his  brother 


94  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

was  returning  to  Iceland  on  the  same  boat  with  himself  and 
his  bride.  Something  told  him  that  it  would  be  to  his  in- 
terest to  keep  his  father  and  Ormarr  apart. 

Ketill  had  come  to  regard  himself  as  heir  to  the  estate  by 
this  time,  and  already  saw  himself  installed  at  Borg.  He 
never  dreamed  that  Ormarr 's  present  journey,  which  he  re- 
garded as  merely  a  flying  visit,  could  prove  in  any  way  a 
danger  to  himself  and  his  plans.  Ormarr  had  told  him 
nothing  of  the  transfer  of  the  business.  At  the  most,  thought 
Ketill,  it  would  be  a  nuisance. 

His  elder  brother  was  in  many  ways  much  like  his  father. 
Both  seemed  eternally  to  regard  themselves  as  owing  a  duty 
to  all  and  sundry — simply  because  they  happened  to  have  been 
born  in  better  circumstances  than  most  of  those  around  them. 
Ketill  thought  himself  sufficiently  a  man  of  the  world  to  be 
able  to  destroy  this  conviction;  and  he  was  not  far  from 
regarding  it  as  a  childish  weakness  on  the  part  of  0rlygur  and 
Ormarr.  Regard  for  others,  indeed! 

Ketill  was  not  hampered  severely  by  trammels  of  faith  or 
morality.  He  had  gone  to  a  school  where  the  general  rule  of 
conduct  seemed  to  be  each  for  himself ;  his  studies  at  college 
had  brought  him  among  students  who  for  the  most  part  made 
little  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  made  light  of  their 
calling.  One  after  another,  he  had  seen  them  go  out  into  the 
world  as  priests,  in  the  service  of  God,  spiritually  defective, 
rotten,  and  corrupt,  to  their  task  of  leading  others  by  the 
right  way.  And  all  this  had  left  him  with  but  little  respect 
himself  for  his  mission ;  he  enrolled  himself  with  the  rest,  as 
a  matter  of  course. 

His  latest  idea  was  nothing  less  than  to  buy  up  the  whole 
of  Hofsfjordur.  To  own  a  whole  parish — it  would  be  a 
position  of  unique  power  and  authority.  Priest  and  sole 
landlord  of  the  place.  And  then  he  could  take  over  the  busi- 
ness now  run  by  Jon  Borgari's  widow  under  0nlygur's  super- 
vision. It  was  a  dazzling  scheme. 

He  was  enraged  when  he  heard  that  his  father  had  cancelled 
the  debts  owing  to  him  by  the  peasants.  Carefully  handled, 
they  would  have  made  a  splendid  weapon.  And  he  puzzled 


ORMARB  0RLYGSSON  95 

his  brains  for  some  way  whereby  he  might — when  his  father 
had  gone — render  the  old  chieftain's  action  null  and  void. 

Ormarr's  return  now  was  a  serious  blow  to  his  plans.  He 
had  more  than  once  hinted  to  Ormarr  that  0rlygur  was  get- 
ting strange  in  his  manner  and  actions  of  late,  and  it  had  been 
in  his  mind  that  afterwards  he  could  break  the  sad  news  to  his 
brother  that  their  father  had  towards  the  end  been  not  alto- 
gether responsible  for  his  actions. 

But  now  Ormarr  would  see  his  father  for  himself,  and  there 
was  no  prospect  of  carrying  out  that  part  of  the  plan.  More- 
over, it  was  likely  that  Ormarr  and  0rlygur,  in  their  talks 
together,  might  bring  out  several  little  matters  not  at  all  to 
his  advantage,  and  seriously  damage  his  prospects.  He  must, 
at  all  events,  try  as  far  as  possible  to  be  present  whenever  the 
two  seemed  disposed  to  talk  over  things  generally.  He  had, 
of  course,  given  orders  for  the  vicarage  to  be  set  in  order 
ready  for  his  arrival,  but  he  could  doubtless  stay  under  his 
father's  roof  for  a  time  on  his  return,  without  giving  cause 
for  comment. 

Ormarr's  arrival  with  the  newly  married  couple  was 
altogether  unexpected.  0rlygur  was  greatly  moved,  and 
embraced  his  son  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Ormarr  was  deeply  touched  when  he  saw  how  his  father 
had  aged.  He  thanked  the  Fate  that  had  led  him  to  throw 
up  his  work  and  come  home.  Also,  it  seemed  that  his  coming 
was  well  timed ;  for  he  was  quick  to  note  the  strained  relations 
between  his  father  and  Ketill,  though  the  reason  was  not  at 
first  apparent. 

0rlygur  received  his  younger  son  with  marked  coolness, 
but  spared  no  pains  to  make  his  welcome  as  cordial  as  possible 
to  his  daughter-in-law. 

Ketill 's  idea  of  making  a  stay  at  Borg  to  begin  with  was 
promptly  shattered.  0rlygur  had  guessed  his  intention,  and 
soon  after  the  midday  meal,  went  out  himself  to  see  that  horses 
were  saddled.  On  re-entering  the  room,  he  acquainted  Ketill 
of  the  fact,  and  added:  "You  will  want  to  show  your  wife 
over  the  new  home  before  it  gets  dark. ' ' 


96  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

The  hint  was  too  direct  to  be  disregarded ;  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  go  with  a  good  grace. 

When  the  pair  had  left,  Ormarr  and  his  father  sat  alone  in 
the  sitting-room.  And  now  for  the  first  time  Ormarr  per- 
ceived how  troubled  in  mind  the  old  man  was.  He  paced  up 
and  down  the  room,  and  for  some  time  Ormarr  forbore  to 
question  him.  It  was  hard  for  0rlygur  to  commence,  but  at 
length  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  spoke  in  a  weak  and 
faltering  voice. 

"Ormarr,  you  should  have  been  my  only  son.  It  would 
have  been  better  so.  I  am  paying  dearly  for  my  disregard 
of  the  warning.  Had  I  not  been  so  self-willed,  maybe  your 
mother  would  have  been  alive  now,  and  your  life  would  have 
been  very  different.  Not  that  I've  anything  to  reproach  you 
with,  no.  ..." 

Ormarr  grasped  his  father's  hand,  and  pressed  it.  The 
old  man  turned  his  head  away,  and  went  on : 

"It  is  hard  to  see  a  thing  one  had  treasured  with  heart  and 
soul  brought  to  ruin;  to  die,  and  leave  an  inheritance  of 
responsibility  behind.  Ormarr,  do  you  remember  Pall  a 
Seym's  little  girl?" 

' '  Runa  ?  Yes,  indeed.  "Why  have  I  not  seen  her  this  time  ? 
I  hope  she  is  not  very  seriously  ill?"  Ormarr  had  inquired 
after  her  on  his  return,  but  had  simply  been  told  that  she  was 
not  well. 

0rlygur  hesitated  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said : 

* '  Runa  has  been  betrayed — by  your  brother. ' ' 

Ormarr  started  as  if  struck,  and  his  face  paled.  His 
father's  hand  slipped  from  his  grasp,  and  the  two  men  sat 
for  a  while  in  silence.  When  at  last  they  spoke,  it  was  of 
other  things. 

"Yes,"  said  0rlygur  thoughtfully,  "there  are  many  things 
that  will  trouble  me  if  the  estate  goes  to  Ketill.  I  have  an 
idea  that  he  thinks  of  collecting  the  debts  I  wrote  off  for  the 
people  here  some  time  back,  as  still  due  to  the  estate.  The 
folk  do  not  trust  him,  and  have  certainly  no  love  for  him.  If 
the  place — and  the  honour  of  the  family — are  left  to  him  .  .  . 
I  could  wish  them  in  better  hands." 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  97 

"But  I  have  come  home  now,  father." 

0rlygur  looked  questioningly  at  his  son. 

"But — you  will  not  be  here  very  long?  Your  busi- 
ness ..." 

"I  have  sold  it." 

"Sold  the  fleet?  To  whom?"  0rlygur  flung  out  the  ques- 
tion with  evident  anxiety  in  his  voice,  and  looked  keenly  at 
his  son. 

"To  Jantzen." 

"Ah — that  is  another  thing.    You  can  trust  him?" 

"As  I  could  myself,  or  you,  father." 

"I  thought  so,  or  you  would  not  have  sold  to  him." 

"I  had  to  sell  out,  because  we  had  succeeded  in  our  aim, 
and  there  was  no  longer  any  need  for  me  to  continue.  I  could 
not  go  on.  Once  I  have  mastered  a  thing,  when  the  element 
of  uncertainty  and  contest — apart  from  what  is  obtainable 
by  all — has  gone,  then  I  can  work  at  it  no  longer." 

"Then  you  will  take  over  the  estate  here?" 

"Yes.  That  is — or  will  be— -a  task  for  me;  something  that 
others  could  not  do  as  well.  You  are  old  now,  father,  and 
your  last  years  should  be  lived  in  peace.  I  may  be  a  little 
strange  here,  at  first,  still,  I  can  feel  that  I  have  come  home." 

Father  and  son  sat  in  the  growing  darkness  without  thought 
of  needing  lights.  Each  wanted  to  know  all  about  the  other's 
life  during  the  years  since  they  had  last  been  together. 
Ormarr  also  was  keenly  concerned  to  learn  about  matters  in 
the  parish,  who  had  died  and  what  newcomers  were  to  be 
reckoned  with ;  there  were  a  hundred  questions  to  be  answered. 
0rlygur,  on  his  part,  was  eager  to  hear  of  his  son's  doings 
during  those  years,  for  Ormarr  had  said  but  little  in  his 
letters. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  he  said  now.  "I  have  worked 
hard — slaved  at  the  work — beyond  that,  nothing." 

"You  are  yourself  again  now — or  at  least  recognizable  as 
yourself, ' '  said  0rlygur.  ' '  Changes  there  are,  of  course,  but 
mostly  in  your  looks  only.  Voice,  and  eyes,  and  expression 
nave  not  changed.  I  have  noticed  sometimes  you  smile  just 
as  you  used  to  do — it  is  very  long  ago  now.  They  have  been 


98  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

weary  years,  since  your  mother  and  you  seemed  so  far  away 
— sometimes  you  too  seemed  as  far  off  as  your  mother  in  her 
grave.  But  I  see  you  have  been  true  to  yourself  all  the  time. 
And  I  am  glad  you  have  come  home.  I  thank  you,  Ormarr. 
And  I  thank  God  for  sending  you  back  to  me. ' ' 

It  was  dark  now,  but  still  no  lights  were  lit.  The  house 
was  silent ;  nothing  heard  save  when  one  of  the  two  men  spoke. 

They  talked  on,  fitfully,  springing  from  one  thing  to 
another.  But  for  all  their  frankness  and  sincerity,  there 
was  evidently  something  that  preyed  on  both  their  minds. 

At  last  0rlygur  brought  up  the  matter  himself. 

"Worst  of  all  is  that  about  poor  little  Runa." 

Ormarr  rose,  walked  to  the  window,  and  stood  drumming 
with  his  fingers  on  the  panes.  Then,  as  if  ashamed  of  having 
shown  feeling,  he  returned  to  his  seat. 

"Runa?  .  .  .  Yes.  No  one  must  know  what  has  happened. 
We  cannot  have  her  dishonoured.  For  him  I  have  no  pity, 
except  for  the  sake  of  his  wife.  She  is  a  good  little  soul, 
father,  and  we  must  be  kind  to  her.  But  Runa  .  .  .  father, 
I  know  what  I  must  do." 

0rlygur  was  silent.  A  strange  stillness  seemed  to  fill  the 
room. 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,"  said  0rlygur  at  last.  "There 
is  not  any  one  else  ...  ?" 

Ormarr  rose.  "No,  there  is  no  one  else,"  he  said  shortly, 
and  he  lit  the  lamp. 

0rlygur  took  a  candlestick  with  a  stump  of  candle  in,  lit 
it,  and  kissed  his  son's  forehead. 

"Good-night,  Ormarr,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  am  going  to 
bed  now. ' ' 

As  he  passed  Runa's  bed,  the  light  fell  on  two  wakeful, 
shining  eyes.  Making  sure  that  none  of  the  others  in  the 
room  were  awake,  0rlygur  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  little  Runa.  Ormarr  has  something  to 
say  to  you  in  the  morning." 

Ormarr  sat  on,  staring  at  the  windows,  long  after  his  father 
had  gone. 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  99 

His  own  calmness  surprised  him.  He  felt  as  if  he  were 
playing  himself  as  a  pawn  on  the  board  of  life — and  yet  he 
could  play — and  let  himself  be  played — willingly  enough. 
Neither  he  nor  his  father  had  considered  Runa's  possible 
wishes  in  the  matter.  Ormarr  smiled  as  the  thought  struck 
him. 

But,  in  any  case,  her  honour  must  be  saved. 

A  drowsy  weariness  came  over  him.  How  empty  life  was, 
after  all !  What  had  he,  himself,  got  out  of  it  in  return  for 
all  his  labour?  His  years  of  work  had  been  for  the  benefit 
of  others.  But  was  his  work  of  any  great  importance,  after 
all?  There  had  been  a  time  when  he  had  thought  only  of 
fame  and  pleasure.  Then  he  had  seen  that  there  were  other 
things  more  worth  regard.  At  first  he  had  regarded  the 
domains  of  love  as  sacred  and  inviolable,  but  after  a  time 
had  plunged  recklessly  across  the  border.  And  since  then 
he  had  always  regarded  himself  as  one  who  could  never  hope 
to  meet  with  his  heart's  desire,  his  ideal.  The  whole  question 
of  love  seemed  one  of  but  slight  importance  to  him  thence- 
forward. And  he  had  been  occupied  with  other  things. 

It  all  came  back  to  him  now,  as  he  thought  of  his  brother 's 
relations  with  his  old-time  playmate,  the  fair-haired  child 
whom  he  had  known  later  as  a  tall,  bright-spirited  girl.  4 

And  now  he  was  to  marry  her.  She  was  a  woman  now 
— and  his  brother  had  betrayed  her.  It  was  a  thing  that  had 
to  be,  for  her  honour's  sake  and  that  of  the  family  name. 
His  brother's  child  would  be  brought  up  as  his.  He  was 
to  marry,  and  his  wife  would  bear  a  child — another's 
child. 

How  strangely  the  threads  of  life  were  woven !  "Well,  after 
all,  why  not?  It  mattered  little — nothing  really  mattered. 
"What  would  the  child  be  like?  he  wondered.  Boy  or  girl? 
And  what  was  the  mother  like?  Again,  it  did  not  matter 
much. 

Anyhow,  this  must  be  the  last  phase — the  final  stage  of  his 
life.  It  must  end  as  it  had  begun — at  Borg.  Like  his  fore- 
fathers, he  was  fated  to  be  a  link  in  a  chain,  rather  than  an 
individual. 


100  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Only  it  meant  now  that  all  his  dreams  of  something  greater 
and  better  were  at  an  end. 

He  glanced  up  and  saw  that  it  was  light  outside ;  the  moon 
had  come  out  from  behind  a  hill.  Moved  by  a  sudden  impulse, 
he  took  his  hat  and  coat  and  went  out. 

The  sky  was  cloudy,  semi-darkness  and  bright  moonlight 
alternating  in  quick  succession;  the  earth  looked  cold  and 
forbidding  under  a  heavy  frost,  with  the  streams  showing 
up  as  dark  lines  through  the  white. 

Ormarr  took  a  path  he  knew,  leading  to  Borgara,  where 
as  a  lad  he  had  guarded  the  wool  by  night.  Leaning  against 
a  rock,  he  stood,  letting  thoughts  and  fancies  play  through 
his  mind  at  random.  The  happenings  of  the  day,  the  revela- 
tions he  had  heard,  seemed  more  like  a  dream  than  any  reality. 

Runa  lay  wakeful  long  through  the  night.  Ormarr 's 
unexpected  return  had  thrown  her  into  a  state  of  confused 
emotion.  The  simultaneous  arrival  of  Ketill  seemed  but  of 
minor  importance,  though  why  this  should  be  so,  she  could 
not  have  told  herself. 

She  remembered  Ormarr  from  his  last  visit  home,  and  how 
she  had  felt  drawn  to  him  at  the  time.  He,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  not  paid  much  attention  to  her,  and  was  doubtless  una- 
ware of  the  impression  he  had  made.  To  her,  he  was  the 
greatest  and  best,  the  most  wonderful  of  men ;  an  ideal,  inac- 
cessible, but  nevertheless  to  be  worshipped. 

Then  he  had  gone  away — vanished  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
come,  to  live  thenceforward  only  as  a  dream  in  her  heart. 
And  she  was  firmly  convinced  that  he  had  never  given  her 
a  thought.  In  this,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  right. 

On  learning  of  his  arrival  now,  she  had  tried  in  every  way 
to  avoid  him,  to  conceal  herself  from  him.  All  the  others 
might  know,  but  Ormarr — no,  that  was  too  cruel.  And  now 
— he  would  learn  it  soon  enough.  His  father  would  tell  him, 
and  he  would  know  what  she  was — the  very  thought  of  it 
made  her  shudder.  She  was  not  what  she  appeared  to  be; 
she  was  nothing.  'She  hated  Ketill,  and  wished  herself  dead. 

The  thought  of  taking  her  own  life  had  crossed  her  mind, 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON  101 

but  fear  restrained  her.  Now  the  thought  came  up  again, 
and  when  0rlygur  had  whispered  to  her  as  he  passed,  whis- 
pered a  thing  she  dared  not  understand,  she  made  up  her 
mind.  There  was  no  fear  in  her  heart  now,  she  had  taken  her 
decision. 

Shortly  after  0rlygur  had  retired,  she  rose  up,  dressed 
herself  noiselessly,  and  crept  along  the  passage  towards  the 
room  where  Ormarr  slept.  A  light  showed  from  beneath 
the  door;  evidently  he  was  still  awake.  With  bated  breath 
she  passed  by,  and  crept  from  the  house  without  a  sound. 
She  longed  to  look  in  through  the  window,  just  to  see  what 
he  looked  like — now.  But  she  dared  not  risk  it.  She  stepped 
cautiously  and  quietly  until  a  little  way  from  the  house,  then 
suddenly  she  broke  ino  a  run,  and  made  away  towards  the 
place  she  had  in  mind.  .  .  . 

Ormarr  saw  a  woman  come  rushing  down  towards  the  river. 
His  first  inpulse  was  to  run  towards  her,  but,  realizing  that 
she  must  pass  close  by  where  he  stood,  he  remained  motion- 
less, waiting. 

The  woman  checked  her  pace  and  stood  for  a  moment  with 
hands  clasped  to  her  breast.  Then  she  bent  down  and,  taking 
up  one  of  the  sacks  that  were  strewn  around,  began  filling  it 
with  stones.  She  felt  its  weight,  and,  apparently  satisfied, 
tied  up  the  mouth.  No  sound  came  from  her  lips. 

In  a  flash  Ormarr  realized  who  it  was,  and  what  she  had 
in  mind.  He  saw  her  move  down  to  the  water's  edge,  the 
sack  in  her  hand.  Then,  rising,  he  called  to  her  softly: 

"Runa!" 

The  girl  stood  still  as  if  paralysed.  He  walked  up  to  her 
without  a  word;  he  did  not  look  at  the  sack,  but  touched  it 
as  if  by  accident  with  his  foot,  sending  it  into  the  water. 
Then,  taking  the  girl's  arm,  he  led  her  quietly  back  to  the 
house. 

He  took  her  to  his  room,  led  her  to  a  seat  and  sat  dewn 
beside  her,  taking  her  hands  in  his  and  stroking  them  tenderly. 
The  girl's  breast  heaved;  she  was  deadly  pale,  but  she  made 
no  sound.  So  unexpected  had  been  Ormarr 's  intervention 
that  she  had  hardly  realized  as  yet  what  had  happened. 


102  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Ormarr  held  her  hands  in  his. 

"Poor  child,  it  is  hard  for  you,  I  know.  Life  is  hard.  I 
have  learned  something  of  that  myself.  Poor  child,  poor 
child!  But,  Euna,  you  must  trust  me  .  .  .  will  you  try? 
I  will  be  kind  to  you.  Perhaps,  after  all,  you  may  be  glad 
of  the  child  and  I  as  well.  For  we  must  marry,  you  know; 
it  is  the  only  thing  to  do.  But  only  as  a  matter  of  form,  of 
course,  to  save  a  scandal.  The  child  will  be  born  in  wedlock, 
and  it  will  be  understood  to  be  mine.  No  one  knows  anything 
as  yet ;  we  can  go  abroad  at  once,  and  stay  away  a  year  or  so. 
It  is  not  what  you  had  wished  for,  I  know,  not  what  you  had 
a  right  to  expect,  but — there  is  no  other  way  now.  As  far  as 
he  is  concerned  it  is  too  late. ' ' 

Euna  burst  into  tears,  and  sat  weeping  silently,  with 
scarcely  a  movement  of  her  face;  but  her  breast  heaved 
violently,  and  the  tears  poured  down  her  cheeks. 

'  *  I  know,  dear  child,  it  is  hard  for  you ;  you  love  him,  and 
me  you  neither  know  nor  care  for." 

The  girl  drew  back  her  hands  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"I  hate  him,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper.  And  a  mo- 
ment after,  she  added  passionately,  defiantly.  "And  I  never 
loved  him  at  all." 

She  threw  herself  face  downwards  over  the  table,  sobbing 
bitterly. 

Ormarr  left  her  to  herself  for  a  while.  Then  going  over 
to  her,  he  stroked  her  hair,  and  tried  to  comfort  her,  as  one 
would  with  a  child.  And  when  she  looked  up,  there  was  a 
light  in  her  eyes,  of  gladness,  as  when  a  child  meets  kindness 
from  one  it  loves  and  respects. 

Tears  rose  to  Ormarr '&  eyes;  the  thought  crossed  his  mind 
that  she  might  at  that  moment  be  wishing  the  child  were  his. 
And  a  pang  of  vague  longing  passed  through  him,  such  as  he 
had  known  at  times  when  life  had  seemed  empty  for  the  lack 
of  one  thing. 

As  if  by  one  accord,  the  two  avoided  each  other's  eyes. 

Then  resolutely  Ormarr  threw  off  his  shyness,  as  if  it  were 
a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of.  He  went  straight  to  her,  and  spoke 
as  calmly  as  he  could — though  his  voice  quivered  a  little. 


ORMAER  0RLYGSSON  103 

"Buna,  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done.  You  must  be  my 
wife." 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  There  was  nothing  of  bitterness 
or  regret  in  her  voice.  But  she  fell  to  crying  again. 

Then  said  Ormarr:  "You  will  be  mistress  of  Borg,  you 
know,  and  that  means  a  big  responsibility,  and  much  to  look 
after." 

She  had  stopped  crying  now,  and  was  evidently  listening, 
though  she  still  hid  her  face.  Ormarr  went  on: 

"I  have  finished  my  work  abroad  now.  When  we  come 
back  from  our  journey,  we  shall  take  over  the  management 
of  Borg.  Father  is  old,  and  needs  rest.  And  then  it  will  be 
for  us  to  see  that  our  child  is  so  brought  up  that  we  can  leave 
the  place  in  good  hands  after  us." 

Kuna  sat  for  a  while  without  speaking;  she  had  stopped 
crying  now.  Then  she  rose,  and  carefully  dried  her  eyes  to 
leave  no  sign  of  weeping,  and  murmured  something  about  it 
being  time  for  her  to  go.  And  then  tears  came  into  her  eyes 
again,  and  she  blushed. 

Ormarr  had  opened  the  door,  but  closed  it  again  and  came 
towards  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "don't  you  think  we  might  shake  hands 
and  consider  it  settled?  That  is,  unless  you  would  rather 
have  time  to  think  it  over?  We  could  at  least  promise  to 
give  each  other  the  best  we  can.  ..."  Ormarr  could  hardly 
speak,  so  deeply  was  he  moved. 

Kuna  gave  him  her  hand — a  warm,  trembling  hand.  He 
pressed  it,  and  let  her  go. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  her,  Ormarr  began  slowly 
undressing,  thinking  aloud,  as  was  his  wont. 

' '  If  life  is  really  only  a  tiny  meaningless  flicker,  and  death 
the  eternal  and  constant  state,  if  life  is  only  little  indifferent 
momentary  things,  and  death  the  great  and  boundless,  then 
why  all  this  complication  and  suffering?  If  my  soul  could 
perish,  could  be  destroyed  by  suffering  like  the  smoke  of 
wood  consumed  by  fire,  like  the  scent  of  a  flower  shed  out  into 
space,  like  a  colour  that  fades  in  strong  sunlight,  then  it 
would  surely  have  become  disintegrated  long  since.  Or  are 


104  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

we  all  figures  on  a  stage?  If  there  were  any  connecting 
string  between  myself  and  the  gods  above,  I  fancy  I  should 
make  a  first-rate  marionette." 

He  put  out  the  light  and  got  into  bed. 

"It  is  just  like  me  to  try  and  conceal  my  thoughts  from 
my  innermost  self,  to  breathe  a  philosophical  mist  over  the 
windows  of  my  own  mind.  If  I  were  to  be  honest  now,  I 
should  have  to  confess  something  different.  Be  honest  for 
once?  And  confess!  Confess  that  a  new,  inexplicable  joy 
had  suddenly  welled  forth  within  me ! 

"Just  because  I  have  seen  the  flush  of  a  soul  turned 
towards  my  own.  And  here  I  am  already  building  castles 
in  the  air,  with  golden  towers  of  great  anticipation.  But, 
to  be  honest,  I  must  build  here  and  now,  whether  I  will  or 
not,  and  trust  that  the  building  may  stand." 

The  moonlight  shone  in  over  him;  he  turned  his  glance 
towards  it  and  looked  up  smiling  at  the  sad,  wry  face,  nodded 
to  it,  and  then  turned  over  on  his  side  and  fell  asleep. 


BOOK  II 
THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP 


CHAPTER  I 

FARU  ALMA  had  come  to  Iceland  knowing  nothing  of 
the  language  of  the  country.  Ketill  and  his  brother 
had  always  spoken  Danish;  it  had  never  occurred  to 
her  that  all  Icelanders  might  not  understand  it. 

When  she  came  to  Borg  on  her  first  arrival,  and  met  her 
father-in-law,  who  could  neither  understand  her  nor  speak 
to  her,  she  realized  that  this  ignorance  on  her  part  would 
make  her  lonely  and  isolated,  and  she  asked  her  husband: 

"Why  did  you  not  teach  me  Icelandic,  Ketill?" 

But  Ketill  answered  curtly.  He  was  in  ill-humour  on 
account  of  the  failure  of  his  first  plans,  and  his  reception 
generally. 

"Never  thought  of  it,"  was  all  he  said. 

Alma,  whose  womanly  instinct  had  told  her  at  once  that 
all  was  not  as  it  should  be  among  the  family,  glanced  anx- 
iously from  one  to  another  of  those  round  her.  Then  she 
observed : 

"But  I  can't  talk  to  any  one." 

"You  can  talk  to  me." 

Alma  was  silent.  It  was  the  first  time  her  husband  had 
spoken  unkindly  to  her. 

Later  on,  as  they  went  home  to  Hof,  Ketill  rode  in  silence, 
with  never  a  word  to  his  wife  all  the  way. 

"Alma's  heart  was  full  of  conflicting  emotions.  She  was 
sorry  that  there  should  be  any  coolness  between  herself  and 
her  husband;  but  her  conscience  at  least  was  clear.  And 
why  could  he  not  talk  to  her;  tell  her  what  it  was  that  evi- 
dently troubled  him?  It  struck  her  that  he  had  never  really 
confided  in  her,  save  in  regard  to  matters  of  no  account. 

Suddenly  she  realized  that  they  were  really  strangers.  She 
had  never  really  known  him,  after  all;  he  had  never  opened 

107 


108  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

his  heart  to  her.  And  the  distance  between  them  seemed 
so  tangible  that  it  was  hard  to  realize  that  they  were  actually 
married.  Despite  the  intimacy  of  their  relationship,  they 
were  separated  by  a  veil  of  darkness  and  uncertainty.  And 
so  they  were  to  live,  side  by  side,  year  after  year,  bound  one 
to  another  by  a  bond  that  could  not  be  broken, — ay,  and  by 
another  that  would  soon  be  evident, — to  live  in  each  other's 
company  through  every  day.  And  the  thought  was  so  painful 
to  her  that  she  found  herself  unwilling  to  contemplate  that 
her  children  would  have  to  call  this  man  their  father. 

The  change  in  her  feelings,  or  more  properly,  her  sudden 
realization  of  the  true  state  of  things,  the  recognition  of  her 
thoughtless  rashness  in  entering  upon  this  marriage,  came  to 
her  as  something  overwhelming;  she  hardly  knew  herself. 
All  in  a  moment  she  was  changed;  she  was  no  longer  the 
light-hearted,  innocent  girl,  but  a  creature  unknown,  with 
unknown  possibilities. 

It  was  done  now,  and  she  was  helpless.  She  had  given 
vent  to  thoughts  and  feelings  which,  as  her  old  self,  she 
would  never  have  dreamed  of.  So  unaccustomed  was  she  to 
act  on  the  dictates  of  her  own  feeling  and  not  by  custom  and 
tradition,  to  measure  things  by  her  own  ideas  and  not  by 
orthodox,  accepted  standards,  that  she  felt  herself  now  a 
dangerous  person,  a  criminal,  forced  to  seek  refuge  in  silence 
and  emptiness  from  words  or  thoughts  that  might  lead  to 
disaster. 

There  was  her  husband  now,  riding  ahead,  and  paying  no 
heed  to  how  she  managed  on  the  way.  Where  was  the  cour- 
teous gentleman  who  had  stood  by  her  side  at  the  altar? 
And  she  had  told  herself — and  others — that  she  had  found 
the  ideal  partner  for  life !  A  priest,  moreover,  a  servant  of 
God,  set  in  the  forefront  of  humanity  as  an  example  to  others ! 

Little  by  little  she  worked  herself  up  to  a  state  of  bitter 
scorn.  Once  she  had  let  herself  go,  she  knew  no  bounds. 

And  she  did  not  spare  herself,  now  that  she  had  once  ven- 
tured to  form  her  own  judgment  of  things  and  people,  herself 
included. 

Oh,  what  an  irresponsible  fool  she  had  been  in  her  self- 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  109 

deception !  Trustful  and  idealistic — yes,  and  narrow-minded 
and  unwittingly  a  hypocrite.  A  doll,  a  child,  a  foolish  butter- 
fly thing.  .  .  .  Heavens,  how  little  and  mean  and  stupid, 
wicked  and  ridiculous,  she  had  been — she  and  so  many  others 
of  her  kind. 

There  was  her  husband,  riding  ahead  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 

A  reaction  of  regret  at  her  impetuosity  came  over  her.  It 
was  a  dreadful  thing  not  to  love  and  honour  him.  Oh,  if 
only  he  would  make-  it  easier;  turn  round  and  nod  to  her 
kindly,  or  say  a  friendly  word.  She  would  be  loving  and  for- 
giving at  once.  Who  could  say  what  troubles  were  burdening 
him  all  the  time  ?  And  perhaps  it  was  only  to  spare  her  that 
he  said  nothing.  Men  were  strange  in  that  way ;  they  fancied 
that  a  woman  suffered  less  in  such  estrangement  if  she  did  not 
learn  the  cause  of  it. 

Then — oh,  it  was  incredible !  They  were  at  the  ford  now, 
and  he  was  riding  through  the  stream  without  so  much  as  a 
look  behind  him.  .  .  .  "Well,  perhaps  there  was  nothing  so 
strange  in  that,  after  all ;  possibly  it  had  not  occurred  to  him 
that  she  had  never  forded  a  stream  on  horseback  in  her  life; 
it  was  only  thoughtlessness  on  his  part. 

But  all  the  same  it  was  a  hard  struggle  to  keep  her  mind 
in  any  friendly  attitude  towards  him,  or  to  keep  back  the  fears 
that  would  rise  to  her  eyes.  She  bit  her  lips,  and  strove  to 
restrain  her  feelings. 

Her  horse  was  already  knee  deep  in  the  water — and  the 
Hofsa  at  this  part  was  wide,  yet  with  a  fairly  strong  current. 

Alma  had  never  ridden  through  running  water  before;  at 
first  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  horse  had  suddenly  flung  itself 
sideways  against  the  stream.  Instinctively  she  leaned  over 
herself,  farther  and  farther,  against  the  stream.  Ketill,  a 
couple  of  lengths  in  front,  looked  round  just  as  she  was  about 
to  fall,  turned  his  horse,  and  seized  her  arm  just  in  time. 

The  roar  of  the  water,  and  a  sense  of  dizziness  in  her  head, 
rendered  her  unconscious  for  the  moment.  But  the  grip  on 
her  arm  was  hard,  and  a  feeling  of  anger  rose  in  her  towards 
her  husband.  Again  she  restrained  herself;  it  was  perhaps 
only  his  firmness  that  had  saved  her;  she  forgot  about  his 


110  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

carelessness  in  riding  ahead  of  her  across  the  ford.  Her 
kindly  feelings  were  uppermost,  and  as  soon  as  they  had 
crossed  to  the  farther  bank,  she  turned  to  him,  trying  honestly 
to  speak  in  a  friendly  tone,  and  asked: 

"What  is  it,  Ketill;  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Nothing — nothing,"  answered  Ketill,  and  gave  his  horse 

a  cut  with  the  whip,  so  that  the  animal  sprang  forward  a  pace. 

At  that,  Alma  broke  down  entirely,  and  fell  to  sobbing 

helplessly;  she  was  weary  and  desperate,  unable  to  think,  or 

even  consciously  to  feel;  she  was  alone  in  a  great  solitude, 

herself  a  solitary  speck  of  misery  in  an  endless  expanse. 

They  reached  the  vicarage.  Alma  was  now  in  a  state  of 
dull  indifference.  She  had,  however,  carefully  dried  the 
tears  from  her  face,  and  drawn  down  her  veil. 

The  vicarage  servants,  about  a  score  in  all,  had  gathered 
in  front  of  the  house  to  welcome  the  new  master  and  his  wife. 
Ketill  was  abrupt  and  reserved  as  hitherto;  he  shook  hands 
with  them  all,  as  was  the  custom  of  the  country,  but  his  greet- 
ing was  cold  and  formal. 

Somewhat  unwillingly,  Alma  laid  her  slight,  warm  hand 
in  the  first  hand  outstretched  towards  her;  but  the  evident 
respect  and  kindly  feeling  with  which  it  was  taken  touched 
her  at  once,  and  she  grasped  it  with  sincere  feeling.  And 
the  ice  once  broken,  she  was  able  to  greet  each  of  the 
simple,  silent  folk  with  unfeigned  heartiness.  She  could  not 
understand  their  stammered  words,  but  her  own  manner 
spoke  for  itself,  and  one  old  woman,  the  last  to  come  forward, 
was  so  touched  by  the  natural  kindlinesss  of  the  fine  lady 
from  foreign  parts,  that  she  forgot  herself  so  far  as  to 
put  one  arm  around  her  shoulder  and  kiss  her  on  the 
cheek. 

Alma  felt  herself  trembling,  and  could  hardly  restrain 
her  tears.  Leaning  on  the  old  woman's  arm,  she  passed  into 
the  house. 

Ketill  gave  some  brief  orders,  and  the  servants  dispersed. 
But  even  this  first  encounter  had  been  enough  to  plant  in 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  111 

the  heart  of  each  of  them  a  seed  of  ill-will  towards  their 
master,  and  affection  towards  the  Danish  lady  he  had 
brought  with  him  as  his  wife. 

The  old  woman  led  Alma  into  the  low-ceilinged  sitting- 
room  and  left  her.  Neither  could  understand  the  other's 
speech,  and  she  had  judged  it  best  to  retire. 

Alma  sat  down  on  a  chair  just  inside  the  door,  still  wear- 
ing her  riding-habit  and  veil,  and  looked  round  the  room. 
It  was  painted  white,  with  four  heavy  beams  across  the  ceil- 
ing. The  two  windows  at  one  end  of  the  room  were  already 
hung  with  heavy  winter  curtains  above  the  white.  The  furni- 
ture was  of  polished  mahogany.  The  floor  was  carpeted,  and  a 
heavy  old-fashioned  stove  was  built  into  the  centre  of  one 
wall.  A  big  upright  clock  ticked  monotonously,  with  a  beat 
as  cold  and  devoid  of  feeling  as  the  utterance  of  a  philoso- 
pher whom  nothing  on  earth  could  move.  There  was  a  sense 
of  comfort  about  the  general  atmosphere  of  the  room,  yet  it 
had,  as  is  often  the  case  with  rooms  antiquely  furnished,  a 
touch  of  aloofness,  forbidding  the  introduction  of  any  other 
tone,  or  at  least  dominating  others  by  its  own. 

Close  to  one  of  the  windows  Alma  noticed  a  large  writing- 
table  and  a  bookshelf;  that  seemed  familiar.  And  suddenly 
she  realized  that  the  room  was  to  be  not  hers  alone,  but  her 
husband's  also.  Probably  he  had  no  study  of  his  own  in  the 
house.  And  a  feeling  of  bitterness  crept  into  her  heart ;  the 
room  seemed  less  inviting  now. 

She  rose,  and  crossed  to  the  window  farthest  from  the 
writing-desk,  where  there  stood  a  small  work-table.  Here 
she  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair,  still  without  taking  off  her 
things,  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Outside  was  a  small 
plot  of  potatoes  and  turnips,  hedged  in  with  the  remains  of 
a  rhubarb  bed,  against  the  high  bank  which  sheltered  the 
garden  on  the  north.  The  windows  faced  south-west,  look- 
ing on  to  the  bleak,  high  f  jeld  beyond  the  enclosure.  Behind 
the  vicarage  towered  the  Hof  Mountains,  hanging  threaten- 
ingly, as  it  were,  above  the  place ;  farther  in  the  distance  were 


112  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

blue-grey  peaks  and  ridges.  It  was  all  so  strange  to  her  that 
now,  looking  at  it  calmly,  it  seemed  unreal,  incredible. 

Alma  turned  cold  at  heart  as  she  looked.  She  remembered 
her  first  survey  of  the  landscape  earlier  in  the  day,  from  Borg ; 
she  had  found  nothing  green  in  it  all  save  the  sea.  All  the 
meadows  and  pastures  round  the  house  seemed  withered  and 
grey;  the  autumn  green  of  the  fields  in  Denmark  was  no- 
where to  be  seen.  All  things  seemed  barren  and  decayed,  with 
a  grey  pallor,  as  it  were,  of  something  nearing  death,  that  she 
had  seen  before  only  in  aged  humanity.  Here,  she  perceived, 
autumn  was  a  reality,  and  not  merely  a  passing  phase  to  be 
taken  lightly.  Most  of  the  houses,  small  and  low,  were  built 
of  turf  and  stone  together.  And  the  separate  buildings  of 
each  homestead  seemed  to  creep  in  close  to  one  another,  keep- 
ing as  close  to  the  ground  as  possible,  like  a  flock  of  animals 
cowering  before  an  approaching  storm. 

The  impression  it  made  on  her  then,  of  impending  disaster, 
of  something  evil  lying  in  wait,  had  vanished  as  quickly  as 
it  had  come;  she  had  not  had  time  to  dwell  on  it.  But 
now  it  recurred  to  her  mind,  and  she  felt  herself  surrounded 
by  coldness  and  enmity  on  all  sides — until  she  remembered 
the  greetings  of  the  servants,  and  the  old  woman  who  had  ush- 
ered her  in  to  the  house.  The  kindness  they  had  shown  to  her, 
alone  and  helpless  as  she  was,  seemed  like  a  protecting  circle 
round  her.  And  easier  in  mind  for  the  thought,  she  fell  to 
pondering  how  she  could  best  learn  their  language  quickly, 
that  she  might  at  least  find  some  kind  words  for  them  in  re- 
turn. 

"While  she  was  thus  engaged,  her  husband  entered. 

She  glanced  at  his  face;  anxious  first  of  all  to  learn  if  he 
were  still  in  the  same  ill-humour  as  before.  The  light  was 
fading,  but  she  could  see  that  his  expression  was  cold  and 
hard,  that  of  a  stranger.  Her  heart  beat  violently;  she  sat 
without  a  word. 

Ketill  hardly  gave  her  so  much  as  a  glance ;  he  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  once  or  twice,  as  if  in  thought,  then  stood 
by  the  window  farthest  from  her,  looking  out.  After  a  while, 


ORMARR  0RLYGSSON 

he  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  came  towards  her.  His  brow 
was  lined,  and  his  face  stern,  but  there  appeared  nevertheless 
to  be  some  attempt  at  friendliness  in  his  bearing — as  if  to 
show  that  she  at  least  was  not  the  cause  of  his  ill-temper. 

' '  "Well  here  we  are,  at  home ! ' ' 

"Yes." 

Alma's  heart  throbbed  painfully,  but  he  did  not  notice  her 
emotion — only  that  she  had  not  taken  off  her  riding 
things. 

"Haven't  you  got  your  things  off  yet?" 

"You  have  not  bidden  me  welcome  yet,  Ketill." 

"Oh,   I  forgot.    Never  mind,   don't  worry  about  that." 

"No,  no.  .  .  .  Forgotten,  did  you  say?  Ketill,  I  hardly 
know  you  again." 

"Whatever  do  you  mean  by  that?  One  can't  always  be 
in  the  best  of  tempers,  I  suppose  ? ' ' 

"No,  perhaps  not.  But — it  seems  a  strange  homecoming, 
that's  all." 

Ketill  was  silent.  He  had  no  reply  to  offer,  and  the  con- 
versation bored  him.  He  was  curiously  indifferent  to  Alma's 
feeling  of  well-being  or  the  reverse.  What  was  she,  after 
all?  A  child,  thoughtless,  ignorant,  like  all  women — and 
most  men  too,  for  that  matter.  She  was  out  of  sorts  just 
now — never  mind,  she  would  have  forgotten  it  by  tomorrow. 
At  any  rate,  he  could  make  it  all  right  again  then;  perhaps 
he  might  feel  more  in  the  mood  for  paying  attention  to  her 
troubles.  Ketill  was  thinking  in  this  strain  when  Alma  spoke 
again. 

"It  is  strange  that  you  should  be  so  different  now,  all  at 
once.  It  almost  seems  as  if  our  marriage  had  separated  us 
rather  than  brought  us  together." 

Ketill  had  no  time  now  to  bother  about  whether  there  were 
any  truth  in  this  or  not :  no,  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  smile 
in  a  superior  fashion  and  not  let  himself  be  put  out.  And  he 
smiled  accordingly,  the  self-satisfied  smile  of  a  priest  and  a 
model  husband,  setting  aside  his  bad  temper  for  the  moment, 
and  said: 


114  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"There,  there,  little  philosopher — let  us  put  off  the  quarrel 
till  another  day." 

"Quarrel?  Oh,  I  had  never  thought  to  quarrel.  I'm  only 
unhappy,  that's  all." 

"Well,  don't  you  think  it  might  be  reasonable  to  imagine 
that  I  had  some  reason  for  being — well,  not  in  the  best  of 
tempers  today — what?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  Ketill.  But  you  have  told  me  nothing;  I 
know  nothing  of  what  could  have  upset  you." 

"Well,  hardly.  Women  don't  understand  men's  troubles 
as  a  rule." 

"That  seems  a  new  sort  of  thing  for  you  to  say." 

"Possibly.  We've  hardly  known  each  other  long  enough 
for  me  to  have  told  you  everything  I  think. ' ' 

' '  True,  we  have  not  known  each  other  so  very  long.  I  only 
hope  we  may  not  find  we  knew  too  little  of  each  other." 

Ketill  laughed ;  to  his  mind,  the  question  was  not  worth'  tak- 
ing so  seriously. 

"Well,  you've  certainly  grown  less  of  a  child  and  more 
of  a  woman — more  of  a  married  woman — than  you  were." 

But  Alma  found  it  utterly  impossible  to  fall  in  with  his 
tone. 

"I  am  tired,  Ketill.     I  should  like  to  go  to  bed." 

"Already!  Well,  well,  perhaps  it's  the  best  thing  you 
could  do." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called  down  the 
passage:  "Kata!" 

The  old  woman  who  had  first  shown  Alma  in,  answered  his 
call,  and  Ketill  charged  her  briefly  to  show  her  mistress  up- 
stairs; she  was  unwell,  and  would  go  to  bed  at  once. 

Old  Kata  led  her  mistress  to  the  bedroom  above.  She  could 
not  overcome  the  awkwardness  caused  by  the  impossibility  of 
speech,  but  did  her  best  to  make  up  for  it  by  kindly  looks  and 
gestures. 

She  would  have  withdrawn  again  at  once,  but  Alma  held 
her  back,  made  her  sit  down  on  a  chair  by  the  bed,  and  tried 
to  talk  to  her,  repeating  little  phrases  again  and  again  till 
they  were  understood.  Kata  seemed  willing  enough,  and  did 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  115 

her  best  to  understand ;  she  would  have  liked  to  explain  that 
she  and  all  the  others  had  already  taken  to  their  new  mistress, 
and  were  anxious  to  do  all  they  could  for  her.  It  was  a  marvel 
to  Kata  that  a  fine  lady  could  be  so  natural  and  sweet  and 
condescending.  All  that  she  had  seen  before  of  that  sort 
had  been  proud  and  stiff  and  disdainful  towards  humble 
folk. 

She  tried  to  relate  a  dream  she  had  had  the  night  before 
about  a  burning  light  washed  up  by  the  waves,  on  the  shore 
just  below.  Old  Kata  was  a  poor  enough  creature  to  look  at, 
but  by  no  means  poor  in  spirit.  She  had  her  own  world  of 
visions  and  dreams,  and  was  mistress  there.  And  she  would 
not  speak  to  all  and  sundry  of  her  dreams;  but  folk  knew 
she  had  the  gift,  and  could  see  what  she  would  and  learn  what 
she  pleased. 

Kata  was  sure  that  the  light  she  had  seen  was  the  fylgje, 
the  attendant  spirit,  of  the  young  Danish  lady.  Kata  always 
saw  a  person's  fylgje  before  she  encountered  the  person  in 
reality,  and  she  had  rarely  seen  so  beautiful  a  fylgje  as  this. 
For  what  could  be  more  beautiful  than  a  burning  light?  A 
burning  light  in  the  darkness.  And  she  was  accustomed  also 
to  interpret  and  say  what  such  things  meant.  But  here  she 
could  not.  A  burning  light  in  the  darkness — what  could  that 
mean  ?  Somthing  good,  something  beautiful  it  must  be.  And 
the  person  it  followed  must  be  a  good  and  lovable  soul. 

Later  that  evening,  the  servants  sat  talking  things  over 
together  before  going  to  bed.  They  spoke  of  their  Danish 
mistress,  and  gathered  round  old  Kata,  who,  of  course,  had 
first  claim  to  speak  with  authority  here. 

"Anyway,  she's  a  good  heart,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"And  not  too  proud  to  take  humble  folks'  hand — as  she 
did  my  very  own." 

Old  Kata  let  them  talk ;  she  could  afford  to  be  silent.  Her 
turn  would  surely  come.  She  had  had  most  to  do  with  their 
mistress  up  to  now,  and,  moreover,  she  was  recognized  as  the 
wisest  head  in  the  place — not  excepting  any  priest.  She  sat 


116  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

now  with  her  knitting,  considering  it  beneath  her  dignity  to 
take  notice  of  all  that  was  said. 

Moreover,  she  had  already  expressed  her  opinion,  in  the 
most  favourable  terms,  and  as  the  others  likewise  had  nothing 
but  praise  to  utter,  there  was  no  call  for  her  to  take  further 
part. 

"Anyway,  I'm  certain  she  won't  be  as  hard  and  cruel 
as  the  last  one  was,  with  her  scolding  and  words,"  said  one 
of  the  maids.  "What  say  you,  Kata?" 

"She's  the  blessedest  light  I've  met  in  all  my  days," 
answered  Kata  quietly,  and  a  trifle  slowly,  as  was  her  way. 
"There's  never  an  evil  thought  in  her  soul,  nor  a  hard  word  in 
her  mouth.  And  that's  the  truth." 


CHAPTER  II 

SERA  KETILL  went  late  to  bed  that  night.  By  ill 
chance  it  was  Saturday,  and  he  had  to  have  his  sermon 
ready  for  the  morrow. 

On  this  occasion,  above  all,  it  behoved  him  to  take  some 
pains  with  it.  It  was  his  first  service,  and  there  would  be  a 
large  and  expectant  congregation. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  feel  at  all  in  the  mood  for  dealing 
with  his  text:  "Ye  cannot  serve  two  masters." 

He  felt  a  sudden  bitterness  of  regret  that  he  had  ever 
decided  to  become  a  priest.  Had  he  but  chosen  any  other 
profession — a  lawyer,  a  doctor,  even  a  trader !  Then  he  would 
have  been  able  at  least  to  avenge  his  defeats  indirectly,  by 
letting  others  suffer  for  them.  Just  think,  for  instance,  of 
the  satisfaction  with  which  he  could  have  taken  up  the  task 
of  passing  sentence  upon  some  one  or  other,  instead  of  point- 
ing out  the  inadvisability,  nay,  the  impossibility,  of  serving 
two  masters.  He  wished  he  could  have  altered  the  text,  and 
held  forth,  for  instance,  upon  the  abomination  of  desolation, 
or  the  Day  of  Judgment.  But  it  could  not  be  done ;  the  text 
was  of  serving  two  masters,  and  nothing  could  alter  it.  And 
he  had  to  have  a  good  strong  sermon  on  that  text  by  tomorrow, 
or  his  first  appearance  would  be  a  failure.  He  was  not  dis- 
posed to  risk  further  defeats  after  the  ill-success  of  his  plans 
today.  He  needed  the  encouragement  of  a  victory,  and  must 
take  it  where  it  seemed  most  easily  attainable. 

He  thought  of  his  changed  position ;  all  things  had  turned 
out  badly  up  to  now.  His  castles  in  the  air;  his  dreams  of 
power — unlimited  power — in  the  parish,  had,  he  could  already 
perceive,  faded  into  nothing.  And  suddenly  it  struck  him 
that  he  had  only  to  give  vent  to  his  own  bitterness,  directing 
it  into  the  proper  channel,  and  there  was  his  sermon ! 

117 


118  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

It  took  time,  and  it  was  late  before  his  manuscript  was 
finished.  But  as  he  contemplated  it,  noting  with  satisfaction 
the  finishing  touches,  he  felt  assured  tEat  here  at  least  was  a 
masterpiece ;  he  had  only  to  deliver  it  with  forceful  and  earn- 
est eloquence,  and  it  must  have  its  effect.  He  had  regained 
his  self-control,  and  was  ready  to  forget  all  the  disappoint- 
ment of  the  day  in  sleep. 

Alma  awoke  early  next  morning. 

She  dressed  in  haste,  and  as  quietly  as  possible,  anxious  not 
to  awaken  her  husband,  and  with  some  difficulty  found  her 
way  through  the  passages  and  out  of  the  house. 

She  stood  for  a  little  outside.  It  was  a  quiet  autumn  day ; 
the  air  seemed  full  of  a  strange  peace  and  solemn  calm.  Being 
Sunday,  there  were  none  of  the  people  astir,  save  those  busy 
within  doors  in  stables  or  kitchen,  and  of  these  she  saw  noth- 
ing. 

Alma  wandered  round  the  place,  making  a  survey  of  her 
surroundings.  The  buildings,  with  their  turf  roofs  and 
solid  walls  of  the  same  material,  seemed  pleasant  enough  to  the 
eye,  giving  a  sense  of  security  in  their  massive  solidity.  They 
seemed  as  firmly  rooted  and  immovable  as  if  Nature  and  the 
Lord  had  planted  them  in  the  earth  when  earth  was  made. 

She  looked  about  for  the  church,  but  could  see  none.  The 
tarred  wooden  structure  yonder,  with  a  turf  wall  round,  could 
surely  not  be  it — and  yet,  on  closer  inspection,  she  noticed 
a  white  cross  rising  from  the  roof.  With  a  curious  beating 
of  the  heart,  she  hurried  across  to  the  gate  in  the  earthen  wall. 
Reaching  it,  she  found  that  the  church  stood  in  the  middle  of 
a  modest  little  churchyard.  She  opened  the  gate  and  went  in. 
Most  of  the  graves  were  simply  oblong  mounds  of  earth,  only 
here  and  there  was  there  a  headstone  with  the  usual  border 
round.  And  there  were  a  few  wooden  crosses  with  lettering 
in  black  tar. 

The  church  itself  was  locked.  She  walked  round  the  out- 
side, and  looked  in  through  one  of  the  windows,  of  which 
there  were  three  on  either  side.  The  interior  was  painted 
white.  At  one  end  stood  the  altar,  on  a  small  semicircular 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  119 

eminence,  with  a  low  rail  round.  Next  to  it  were  the  choir 
stalls,  consisting  of  a  few  benches  along  the  walls  and  some 
loose  ones  arranged  to  allow  of  passage  between.  On  the 
right,  looking  down  the  nave,  was  the  pulpit,  with  painted 
figures  of  apostles  on  the  panels,  evidently  older  than  the 
church  itself.  There  was  a  small  harmonium,  polished  and 
new-looking — the  contrast  made  Alma  smile.  But  she  regret- 
ted it  at  once ;  the  feeling  of  amusement  at  this  primitive  lack 
of  taste  which  installed  a  brand-new  cheap-line  harmonium 
in  an  old  church,  disappeared.  She  felt  that  God's  all-seeing 
eye  was  on  her  as  she  stood  there  spying  in  through  a  window 
at  His  house. 

Looking  around  for  somewhere  to  sit  down  a  little,  she 
noticed  that  the  churchyard  wall  on  one  side  was  low,  and 
went  across.  On  her  way  she  passed  a  grave  on  which  stood  a 
small  pillar  of  grey  granite,  the  upper  part  broken  off 
obliquely.  She  stopped,  and  half  unconsciously  read  the 
inscription.  Between  the  Christian  name  and  surname  stood 
the  word  skald.  She  passed  on,  wondering  in  her  mind  what 
the  little  word  might  mean,  but  gave  it  up,  and  soon  forgot  it. 

Seating  herself  on  the  churchyard  wall,  she  let  her  eyes 
wander  over  the  country  round,  noting  how  the  sun  shone 
on  the  fjord  and  on  the  farther  side  of  the  valley,  leaving 
a  strip  of  shadow  on  the  f jeld.  And  a  feeling  of  longing 
rose  in  her  breast.  It  was  strange  to  see  the  sun  shining 
on  others,  and  herself  be  left  in  the  shadow.  It  seemed  as 
if  there  were  joy  there,  beyond — joy  in  which  she  had  no  part, 
and  which  saddened  her  to  watch.  And  it  was  not  only 
today,  not  merely  the  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud  that  barred 
her  from  the  sunlight ;  no,  there  stood  the  f  jeld,  the  dark  and 
massive,  rocky  height,  that  day  after  day  was  to  steal  the  sun- 
light from  her  life.  She  felt  that  there  was  enmity  between 
them — but  a  moment  later  she  realized  that  the  dark  church 
and  the  gloomy  f  jeld  were  in  harmony ;  and  that  God  was  in 
and  over  both. 

Strange — ever  since  she  had  set  foot  in  this  place,  she  had 
felt  the  presence  of  God  distinctly;  a  blind  omnipotence,  of 
merciless  mercy — she  hardly  knew  how  to  define  it.  God 


120  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

was  not  so  distant  in  these  surroundings  as  He  had  first 
appeared.  The  snow-white  sides  of  the  f  jeld  were  pure  and 
good  to  look  upon ;  they  might  well  be  the  abode  of  God.  The 
country  itself,  in  all  its  outlines,  shapes,  and  colours,  was  so 
wild  and  unlike  all  else  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  regard 
it  as  inhabited  by  human  beings  only,  with  their  petty  trials 
and  pleasures.  It  was  impossible,  here,  to  attach  great  impor- 
tance to  one's  own  well-being  or  the  reverse;  one  felt  so 
pitifully  small  and  weak.  Even  life  and  death  seemed  to 
lose  their  distinctive  outline, 

Alma  caught  herself  thinking — and  she  smiled  at  the 
thought — that  she  had  grown,  and  grown  wiser  since  her 
arrival,  all  in  the  space  of  a  day  and  a  night.  She  felt  now, 
to  a  degree  almost  beyond  reason,  that  she  was  but  a  speck 
in  eternity,  only  a  ripple  on  the  endless  sea  of  time. 

Ketill  found  his  wife  deep  in  thought,  seated  on  the  church- 
yard wall.  She  had  not  heard  him  approaching,  and  started 
when  he  touched  her. 

"With  a  sudden  access  of  tenderness,  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her. 

She  made  no  resistance,  though  she  resented  the  action 
inwardly.  His  strength  and  the  physical  charm  of  the  man 
that  had  once  attracted  her  were  now  grown  repulsive. 

Ketill  noted  that  his  wife  looked  serious.  It  suited  her, 
and  he  stroked  her  hair. 

"Sitting  here  all  alone?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  just  looking  round  the  place.  One  could  sit  here 
for  years,  I  think,  without  getting  tired  of  it.  I  wish  I  were 
a  rock — set  in  a  place  like  this  for  ever!" 

Sera  Ketill  laughed.  "I  must  say  I  prefer  existence  as  a 
human  being,"  he  said. 

"But  it  is  lovely  here,"  Alma  went  on.  "So  grand  and 
wonderful — the  rocks  and  the  sea  and  the  snow  spreading 
everywhere,  and  the  desolate  fields — barrenness  and  abun- 
dance at  once.  It  is  like  looking  at  the  stars  in  the  sky — 
emptiness  and  yet  so  rich.  ..." 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  121 

"A  bit  of  good  rich  pasture  land  would  be  more  to  my 
taste,"  objected  Ketill  teasingly. 

"I  suppose  it  would.  Really,  I  think  I  feel  more  at  home 
here  than  you  do  yourself." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  do  not  find  the  country  altogether 
forbidding.  Many  people  do,  you  know." 

"Forbidding?  I  feel  as  if  I  were  under  a  spell.  No  will 
of  my  own,  just  a  thing  in  the  hands  of  Fate.  And  I  love  the 
feeling  that  there  are  great  and  distant  powers  that  have 
taken  my  life  into  their  hands. ' ' 

"You  had  better  be  careful,  or  you  will  be  growing  super- 
stitious— it  is  a  common  failing  among  the  people  here. 
They  believe  in  all  kinds  of  spirits,  portents,  omens,  fate,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  Look  at  that  gravestone  there — the  one 
with  the  granite  pillar.  A  young  poet  was  buried  there. 
Somehow  the  top  of  the  stone  got  broken  off.  And  folk  lay 
it  to  the  charge  of  the  powers  of  darkness — he  killed  himself, 
you  know." 

"Yes.  ...  A  broken  soul  beneath  a  broken  stone.  ..." 

"I  don't  think  the  powers  of  darkness  trouble  themselves 
much  about  the  gravestones  in  our  churchyards." 

"A  poet,  you  say?     And  he  killed  himself  ?     How — why?" 

"Threw  himself  over  the  cliff  into  the  sea.  You  can  see 
the  spot — over  there.  It  falls  sheer  down  into  the  fjord." 

Alma  looked  and  shuddered.  A  white  wave  broke  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  and  dashed  against  the  cliff. 

"But  why?" 

' '  Nobody  seems  to  know  quite.  They  say  it  was  something 
outside  the  usual  causes — not  starvation,  for  instance,  or  love 
or  weariness  of  life." 

' '  Nobody  knows  ?  And  yet  he  threw  himself  into  the  sea  ? 
Then  it  must  have  been  a  call  from  on  high.  He  realized  the 
presence  of  God,  and  followed  it,  into  darkness  and  death." 

"Alma,  whatever  are  you  talking  about!" 

"I  hardly  know  myself.  The  words  came  into  my  mouth 
without  a  thought.  And  I  feel  myself  thinking  strange  things 
that  never  entered  my  head  before."  And  she  laughed,  a 


122  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

little  nervous  laugh.  "It  is  as  if  the  spirit  were  upon  me,  and 
I  had  to  speak  so." 

At  this  Ketill  suddenly  felt  called  upon  to  play  the  priest. 
Though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  rather  impressed  by  her 
words. 

"Alma,  that  is  blasphemy,  you  know." 

"Not  at  all."  She  looked  up  in  surprise.  "I  simply  feel 
as  if  the  Spirit  of  God  were  moving  on  the  face  of  the  waters, 
and  as  if  I  were  a  piece  of  dead  clay,  waiting  to  be  created 
as  a  human  being. " 


By  half -past  nine,  the  congregation  began  to  appear,  coming 
up  in  little  groups.  Many  were  on  horseback. 

Alma  was  outside  the  house,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  place 
had  suddenly  become  alive.  Little  knots  of  people  came  into 
view  here  and  there,  far  or  near,  appearing  and  disappearing 
between  the  contours  of  the  landscape.  Nearly  all  were 
hurrying. 

Beaching  the  church,  they  dismounted  in  groups,  as  they 
had  come,  tethering  their  horses  near  by.  They  were  unsad- 
dled, and  some  were  merely  hobbled  and  allowed  to  wander 
about  at  will.  The  churchgoers  then  set  to  tidying  themselves 
before  the  service:  pulling  off  the  long  riding  hose,  brushing 
dirt  and  hair  from  their  clothes,  unpacking  collars  or  aprons, 
and  fastening  bows  with  careful  neatness. 

Then,  having  completed  their  toilet,  they  began  to  move 
about,  exchanging  greetings  and  news,  collecting  in  new 
formations  and  changing  again.  A  few  spoke  noisily,  but 
for  the  most  part  they  talked  in  an  undertone,  with  much 
nodding  of  heads  and  brief  ejaculations. 

Alma  was  a  centre  of  attraction,  though  most  of  the  curi- 
ous ones  tried  to  conceal  their  interested  observation.  A 
few  of  the  principal  farmers  and  their  wives,  knowing  who 
she  must  be,  came  up  to  greet  her,  but  with  some  awkward- 
ness, when  they  found  she  could  not  understand  their  speech. 
And  they  withdrew  to  the  company  of  their  fellows. 

0rlygur  a  Borg  came  alone. 

Alma  went  up  to  her  father-in-law,  who  smiled  and  took 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  123 

her  hand,  flushing  like  a  youth,  and  with  that  curious  kindly 
smile  of  his  lighting  up  the  furrowed  face.  He  was  looking 
better,  she  thought,  than  he  had  done  the  day  before. 

She  took  his  arm,  and  would  have  led  him  into  the  house, 
but  he  shook  his  head,  and  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the 
church,  where  the  bell  was  now  ringing  in.  Most  of  the 
congregation  were  already  seated,  only  a  few  late  comers 
were  hastening  up.  Among  them  was  old  Kata.  She 
thought  herself  unobserved,  and  waved  a  coloured  kerchief 
in  the  air,  muttering  to  herself:  "Away,  be  off  with  you, 
cursed  creatures;  get  away,  wicked  things." 

The  bystanders  imagined  she  was  addressing  invisible  be- 
ings, evil  spirits  and  demons, — the  fylgjer  of  those  present, 
— whom  she  had  to  drive  away  to  make  a  passage  for  herself. 

Alma  entered  the  church  with  0rlygur,  leaning  on  his  arm 
up  the  aisle.  This  was  not  customary  except  in  the  case  of 
bride  and  bridegroom,  but  she  knew  no  better.  0rlygur  was 
somewhat  embarrassed,  but  he  felt  happier  than  he  had  done 
for  many  a  day ;  not  for  any  consideration  would  he  have  with- 
drawn his  arm. 

He  found  her  a  seat  next  to  his  own  sitting,  but  did  not 
take  that  place  himself.  As  the  first  layman  in  the  parish  he 
had  duties  to  perform;  he  led  the  singing,  and  Alma  noticed 
that  it  was  the  organ  that  followed  his  lead,  not  the  reverse. 
She  also  remarked  that  his  voice  was  surprisingly  strong  and 
pure  for  his  years. 

In  the  responses,  however,  he  faltered  a  little;  possibly, 
thought  Alma,  from  nervousness  on  account  of  the  fact  that 
his  son  was  officiating  for  the  first  time.  A  little  after,  she 
noticed  a  frown  on  his  brow,  lines  that  had  not  been  there 
before,  or  at  least  not  so  marked.  And  it  crossed  her  mind 
that  0rlygur  a  Borg  was  not  on  friendly  terms  with  his  son 
Ketill — there  must  be  some  good  cause  for  it.  ... 

Already  she  seemed  to  have  grown  to  love  this  old  man, 
with  his  snow-white  hair  and  beard,  and  the  look  of  strength 
and  yet  of  Christian  kindliness  in  his  face.  Her  eyes  wan- 
dered from  one  to  another  of  those  present,  old  and  young. 

Many  were  better  dressed  than  0rlygur,  who  wore  a  suit 


124  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

of  brown  homespun  material,  his  jacket  buttoned  up  round 
the  neck,  and  a  pair  of  soft  hide  shoes  on  his  feet.  Many  of 
the  others  wore  collars  and  polished  boots,  yet  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  this  man  was  the  leader — the  born  master  of  his  fellows, 
to  whom  all  others  must  defer.  Not  that  there  was  anything 
overbearing  in  his  manner,  far  from  it.  He  nodded  to  one 
and  all,  and  they  returned  his  greeting  without  servility,  but 
with  ungrudging  respect  as  towards  a  superior  whom  they 
esteemed. 

0rlygur  sat  with  bowed  head  and  expressionless  features 
throughout  the  sermon.  But  Alma  could  see  that  the  people 
generally  were  carried  away.  And  when  the  service  was  at  an 
end,  they  gathered  round  0rlygur  and  Ketill  to  offer  their 
congratulations.  0rlygur,  however,  made  no  reply  to  their 
words  of  praise,  only  thanked  them  briefly.  Shortly  after, 
he  took  leave  of  Alma,  shaking  his  head  in  response  to  her 
invitation  to  the  house.  She  saw  him  go  up  to  Ketill,  who 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  group  of  peasants,  and 
address  a  few  words  to  him,  whereupon  both  men  walked 
away  to  where  0rlygur  's  horse  was  standing. 

"Ketill,  I  must  have  a  word  with  you,"  said  0rlygur  to 
his  son. 

And  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  rest  he  went 
on. 

"Do  not  speak;  do  not  dare  to  say  a  word!  Listen!  You 
are  a  scoundrel  and  a  rogue.  Your  sermon  was  hypocrisy, 
and  inspired  by  something  certainly  not  divine.  You  can 
deceive  these  poor  folk,  maybe,  but  you  can  no  longer  deceive 
me.  I  cannot  imagine  what  use  the  Lord  has  for  such  a  man 
as  you — that  He  ever  let  you  into  His  vineyard  at  all.  And 
I  cannot  understand  what  Fate  ever  led  that  angel  yonder 
to  become  your  wife.  How  her  beautiful  eyes  could  fail  to 
see  through  you — 'tis  more  than  I  can  fathom.  Her  will 
is  for  good — and  yours  for  evil.  Ay,  you  may  smile !  You  are 
a  hypocrite — a  ne'er-do-well.  But  you  are  the  priest  of  this 
parish,  more's  the  pity,  and  married  to  a  good  and  beautiful 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  125 

girl — also,  you  are  my  son.  I  can  only  warn  you  to  be  care- 
ful. And  I  have  this  to  tell  you :  Ormarr  is  taking  over  the 
estate  of  Borg ;  he  has  sold  his  business.  And  he  is  to  marry 
Runa,  my  adopted  daughter;  they  are  going  abroad  at  once. 
When  Ormarr  dies,  Borg  goes  to  their  children — you  under- 
stand me?  I  would  advise  you  to  be  good  to  your  wife. 
Should  I  hear  otherwise,  then  God  have  mercy  upon  you. 
For  her  sake  I  will  continue  my  duties  in  the  church  as  before, 
hateful  though  it  is  to  me  to  endure  the  sight  of  you.  For 
her  sake  I  pray  that  God  will  give  me  strength.  Even  now 
I  cannot  set  foot  in  your  house.  Make  what  excuse  you  please 
to  your  wife ;  let  her  be  spared  from  knowing  the  truth ; 
bring  her  to  Borg  occasionally  yourself.  I  would  not  see  her 
suffer  for  your  sins.  And  now  I  have  spoken  my  mind." 

0rlygur  a  Borg  turned  on  his  heel,  mounted  his  horse,  and 
rode  off. 

Sera  Ketill  had  endeavoured  once  or  twice  to  smile  during 
his  father 's  outburst,  but  it  was  more  for  the  sake  of  preserving 
his  self-control  that  he  had  tried  to  consider  the  matter  in  a 
humourous  light.  As  0rlygur  rode  away,  he  stood  with 
bowed  head,  set  teeth,  and  frowning  brow ;  then  with  an  effort 
he  pulled  himself  together,  striving  to  regain  his  normal  air 
of  priestly  authority. 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  encountered  Alma,  he  said : 

"My  father  was  very  busy,  and  could  not  come  in.  He 
told  me  to  give  you  his  kind  regards.  Ormarr  is  leaving  to- 
morrow— going  abroad,  so  they  have  much  to  do  at  Borg." 

"So  that  is  why  Ormarr  did  not  come  to  church?" 

"Yes,  naturally." 

"But  surely  he  will  come  and  say  good-bye?" 

"It  is  hardly  likely.  He  is  only  going  away  for  a  short 
time,  and  when  he  comes  back  he  will  live  at  Borg." 

"It  will  be  nice  to  have  him  so  near.  But  what  about  his 
business  ? ' ' 

"He  has  sold  it,  so  my  father  tells  me.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  this  voyage  is  a  sort  of  honeymoon.  He  is  going  to 


126  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

marry  Runa,  father's  adopted  daughter,  and  she  is  going 

with  him.    We  did  not  see  her  yesterday. ' ' 
"But  it  seems  strange — not  to  pay  a  farewell  visit." 
Ketill  smiled  sarcastically.    "I  should  not  expect  it,"  he 

said.     "It  is  not  the  custom  in  this  country." 


CHAPTER  III 

FOR  the  next  few  days  Sera  Ketill  went  about  with  a 
preoccupied  air.  He  was  trying  to  weigh,  the  situa- 
tion and  settle  his  plans. 

If  his  father  and  Ormarr  had  thought  he  would  give  up  the 
struggle  without  protest,  they  were  mistaken.  He  would  not 
allow  himself  to  be  crushed.  If  they  asked  for  war,  they 
should  have  it.  True,  everything  seemed  to  favour  them  at 
present,  but  on  the  other  hand,  the  odds  absolved  him,  he 
considered,  from  any  obligation  to  be  overscrupulous  in  his 
choice  of  weapons.  All 's  fair  in  love  and  war. 

He  remembered,  with  something  like  regret,  the  pleasant 
spring  evenings  when  he  had  wandered  side  by  side  with 
Runa,  enjoying  a  brief  flirtation.  Happy  days — with  nothing 
but  the  pleasure  of  the  moment  to  consider.  He  had  no 
longings  to  plague  him,  having  all  that  he  desired.  He  imag- 
ined himself  in  love  with  the  shy,  dreamy  child  who  trusted 
herself  so  unreservedly  to  him.  It  had  cost  him  something 
to  leave  her,  but,  nevertheless,  something  within  him  told  him 
that  he  must;  that  he  could  not  go  on  enjoying  one  idle, 
happy  phase,  but  must  move  forward  to  a  new  and  more 
strenuous  one,  that  promised  in  return  greater  rewards  for 
greater  strife. 

And,  once  he  had  left  her,  Runa  had  passed  from  his  mind 
entirely;  all  that  was  left  of  her  was  a  vague  memory,  the 
recollection  of  one  of  his  minor  adventures,  a  careless  day 
of  sunshine  in  his  past.  He  had  never  thought  she  would 
cross  his  path  again;  it  had  never  once  occurred  to  him  to 
write  to  her.  He  regretted  his  thoughtlessness  now.  If  he 
had  kept  up  a  kind  of  correspondence  with  her,  he  might 
have  used  his  influence  over  the  girl  to  some  purpose.  Any- 
how, it  was  fortunate  that  the  incident  had  turned  out  as  it 

127 


128  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

had.  No  scandal — not  a  soul  to  fear.  He  could  be  quite 
easy  on  that  score,  for  it  was  in  the  interest  of  the  other  party 
that  nothing  should  leak  out.  And,  with  a  little  deft  manip- 
ulation on  his  part,  the  hushing  up  of  the  matter  might 
even  prove  a  most  useful  weapon  in  his  hand.  Again,  all 
was  fair  in  love  and  war. 

On  the  whole,  his  position  was  not  so  bad.  He  had  made 
a  good  match,  and  his  wife  had  considerable  expectations  in 
addition  to  her  present  fortune.  Yes,  he  would  be  able  to  look 
after  himself.  Ormarr  might  take  over  the  estate — for  a  time. 
But  he  who  laughs  last,  laughs  best.  When  all  was  said  and 
done,  his  father  and  brother  had  not  yet  got  him  into  their 
power;  he  had  his  congregation,  and  his  position  gave  him 
an  excellent  opportunity  to  influence  public  opinion.  Mean- 
time, he  would  take  care  to  win  them  over  by  his  powers  of 
persuasion  generally,  and  gradually  make  them  his  faithful 
adherents. 

The  old  man  had  been  furious  on  Sunday ;  he  had  probably 
been  far  from  appreciating  his  son's  talents  as  a  preacher. 
But  he  would  know  how  to  lash  the  old  man's  feelings  with 
his  words  from  the  pulpit;  he  would  reach  farther  and  cut 
deeper  than  any  other  had  done  before.  No  fanciful  theology, 
but  argument  backed  by  chapter  and  verse  from  the  Scrip- 
tures. There  could  be  no  question  of  defence  or  refutation; 
it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  0rlygur  a  Borg  writhing  under 
the  interpretations  of  the  Old  Testament  delivered  by  his 
son.  Ay,  he  would  show  them  that  a  priest  was  a  man  to 
be  feared,  an  enemy  not  to  be  lightly  challenged. 

Sera  Ketill  was  already  elated  with  thoughts  of  his  victory 
to  come.  He  drew  up  far-reaching  plans,  and  began  at  once 
to  con  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  in  his  mind — as  weapons 
to  be  used  in  his  campaign  against  his  father  and  brother. 

Alma  was  left  very  much  to  herself;  her  husband  had 
little  time  to  spare  for  entertaining  her.  "When  he  was  not 
busy  with  his  sermons,  he  was  occupied  out  of  doors. 

The  cattle  were  brought  in  for  water,  and  the  sheep  called 
down  from  the  mountain  pastures  where  they  had  grazed 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  129 

throughout  the  summer.  Their  numbers  had  to  be  checked, 
according  to  the  list  prepared  when  they  had  first  gone  out, 
to  see  if  any  were  missing.  Then  came  the  question  as  to 
how  many  should  be  kept  during  the  winter.  The  hay  in  the 
lofts  was  measured  out  in  horse-loads;  one  sheep  needed  but 
a  single  horse-load  for  the  whole  winter,  this  being  eked  out 
by  the  winter  grazing  grounds,  which  gave  a  certain  amount 
of  feed  each  year,  on  the  hillsides  or  down  by  the  shore.  A 
cow,  on  the  other  hand,  would  need  forty  horse-loads,  whereas 
a  horse  could  manage  with  ten.  All  these  and  other  details 
had  to  be  considered. 

Then  came  the  killing  season,  and  large  droves  of  sheep 
were  sent  off,  either  direct  to  the  slaughter-houses  or  to  the 
market. 

There  were  repairs  to  be  undertaken,  buildings  and  out- 
houses to  be  seen  to ;  altogether,  there  were  many  things  which 
claimed  Sera  Ketill's  attention,  and  often  his  personal 
supervision,  especially  the  sale  and  slaughtering  of  the  stock. 

Indoors,  too,  there  was  much  to  be  done ;  supplies  of  dried, 
preserved,  and  pickled  provisions  were  invariably  laid  in  for 
each  winter. 

Alma  herself  had  not  much  to  do.  When  it  was  fine  enough 
she  went  for  long  walks ;  otherwise,  she  spent  most  of  her  time 
reading  or  sewing.  Now  and  again  she  would  go  out  into 
the  kitchen,  and  try  to  talk  to  the  maids.  When  Kata  was  at 
liberty,  Alma  sought  her  company,  either  in  the  kitchen  or  in 
the  sitting-room.  Kata  preferred  the  former;  it  seemed  to 
her  a  mark  of  favouritism  to  be  invited  into  the  inner  rooms. 
Alma  had  come  to  appreciate  highly  the  old  woman's  straight- 
forward earnestness  and  her  power  of  maintaining  discipline 
when  necessary,  and  old  Kata  had  no  greater  wish  than  to  do 
all  in  her  power  for  her  young  mistress.  She  carried  out  her 
duties  faithfully,  and  saw  to  it  that  the  other  servants  did 
the  same. 

Alma  had  thus  plenty  of  time  to  consider  her  own  position. 
But  it  was  a  difficult  matter  to  arrive  at  any  clear  conclusion 
out  of  the  maze  of  moods  and  fancies  that  filled  her  mind. 

At  times  she  even  thought  of  returning  home  to  her  people, 


130  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

but  only  for  a  moment.  She  felt  she  would  never  be  able  to 
take  up  the  threads  of  her  old  life  again.  And  indeed,  from 
a  practical  point  of  view,  it  seemed  impossible.  What  would 
her  husband  say  to  such  a  step  ?  Moreover,  she  would  proba- 
bly be  having  a  child  before  long. 

Apart  from  these  considerations,  however,  she  could  hardly 
bring  herself  to  leave  the  country;  it  had  made  a  powerful 
impression  on  her  from  the  first,  and  she  felt  herself  strangely 
under  its  spell.  Here,  at  least,  she  could  live,  even  if  she 
had  to  renounce  all  idea  of  any  happiness  in  her  domestic 
life  with  her  husband.  If  she  went  away  now,  she  felt  that 
a  part  of  her  being  would  be  left  behind;  to  live  elsewhere 
would  be  spiritless,  intolerable. 

She  bore  with  resignation  the  shattering  of  her  dreams 
of  love,  and  made  no  attempt  to  deceive  herself  with  ideas 
of  a  future  reconciliation.  Love,  she  felt,  would  play  no 
further  part  in  her  life;  when  she  endeavoured  to  sound 
her  feelings  on  this  point,  she  found  herself  coldly  indifferent. 
Her  conscience  was  in  no  way  hurt  by  her  attitude  towards 
her  husband;  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  since  he  on  his  part 
seemed  to  have  no  longer  any  pleasure  in  the  possession  of 
her,  regarding  her  merely  as  a  chattel  he  had  acquired. 

She  even  went  so  far  as  to  imagine  that  he  had  never  loved 
her,  but  only  pretended  to  do  so,  and  had  only  won  her  by 
sheer  selfish  calculation.  In  the  days  of  their  courtship,  such 
a  thought  had  never  entered  her  mind ;  but  now,  disappoint- 
ment had  driven  all  love  away,  leaving  only  a  sense  of  injury. 

Chiefly  dominant,  however,  was  the  sense  of  indifference; 
Alma  had  almost  become  a  fatalist.  Sorrows  and  disappoint- 
ments were  things  to  be  taken  as  they  came,  and  stacked  aside, 
as  a  card-player  lays  aside  the  tricks  he  has  taken,  or  a  miser 
packs  away  his  treasures.  All  unknowingly,  she  was  gradu- 
ally developing  in  herself  something  of  the  essential  character 
of  the  country  that  had  so  impressed  her ;  so  it  was  that  the 
snow  gathered  and  hung  on  the  mountain-side,  ever  more  and 
more,  until  it  crashed  down  in  an  avalanche,  burying  houses 
and  men,  or  sweeping  them  out  to  sea.  So  also  in  the  heart 
of  the  volcanoes  molten  stuff  was  gathered  slowly — to  burst 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  13] 

forth  one  day  and  spread  death  and  desolation  abroad.  And 
human  beings  might  do  as  they,  gathering  slowly  the  force 
that,  suddenly  loosed,  should  change  their  destinies. 

Autumn  spread  its  heavy  tones  over  the  land,  persistent, 
yet  ever  changing. 

There  were  grey,  wet  days,  when  all  things  were  obliterated 
under  masses  of  rain.  Then  violent  storms,  when  window- 
frames  and  houses  rattled  and  shook,  and  the  dust  was  whirled 
in  huge  yellow  clouds.  Haystacks  were  caught  in  the  whirl- 
wind, tumbledown  cottages  demolished;  even  the  strongest 
men  were  at  times  obliged  to  move  on  all  fours  over  the  hills, 
to  avoid  being  swept  over  some  precipice.  Boats  along  the 
shore  were  crushed  like  egg-shells;  there  were  sad  days  for 
the  fisherfolk. 

Sometimes  the  elements  seemed  to  be  resting,  leaving  the 
weather  calm  and  mild;  at  other  times  there  would  be  days 
of  shifting  light  and  shade,  of  scurrying  clouds  and  sudden 
hailstorms  that  left  white  streaks  along  the  hillsides  where 
they  passed. 

The  days  were  growing  shorter ;  everywhere  the  advance  of 
darkness  made  itself  felt,  like  a  mighty  bass  in  the  autumnal 
choir,  relieved  by  the  clear  treble  of  the  stars  and  the  north- 
ern lights. 

Alma  spent  the  long  evenings  at  home  for  the  most  part, 
busy  with  her  own  thoughts.  There  was  little  interchange 
of  words  between  her  and  her  husband.  They  seemed  sepa- 
rated by  a  gulf  of  silence;  Ketill,  apparently,  found  nothing 
distressing  in  the  fact.  It  was  convenient  to  have  a  wife 
who  was  quiet,  and  did  not  bother  him.  But  Alma  felt  as  if 
they  lived  in  different  worlds,  with  but  the  slightest  link  be-, 
tween  them. 

Sometimes  the  fact  that  they  were  married — and  the 
intimacies  which  alone  declared  it — seemed  to  her  so  tragi- 
cally humourous  that  she  had  to  bite  her  lips  lest  she  should 
break  out  into  bitter  laughter. 

The  autumn  nights  had  a  depressing  effect  on  her  mind, 


132  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

filling  her  with  a  consuming  pain — a  deep  and  intolerable 
longing  for  some  one  in  whose  heart  she  had  a  place,  though 
but  the  merest  little  corner,  where  she  could  feel  at  rest. 

At  milking-time,  about  ten  o:clock,  she  could  be  sure  of 
finding  old  Kata  in  the  cowshed.  And  often  she  would  steal 
out  to  her  there,  watching  the  old  woman  at  work  in  the  dim 
light.  Old  Kata  knew  that  her  mistress  might  be  coming,  and 
sent  off  Kobbi,  the  old  cowman,  for  a  jug,  which  was  filled 
straight  from  the  udder, — an  especial  piece  of  consideration 
on  the  part  of  Kata, — and  the  three  would  sit  talking  together 
as  best  they  could.  The  two  old  folk  had  already  taught 
their  mistress  something  of  the  language,  enough  at  any  rate 
for  her  to  understand  them,  and  now  and  again  put  in  a 
word  herself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TIME  rolled  on. 
The  autumn  nights  grew  longer;  the  days  dwin- 
dled to  a  few  hours'  feeble  light. 

Winter  was  near  at  hand. 

Then  came  the  snow.  First  one  night,  when  all  was  still. 
There  it  lay  next  morning,  a  soft,  white  sheet  spread  out 
under  a  blue-tinted  sky.  All  the  earth  seemed  silent  as  in 
church,  at  the  hour  of  meditation.  And  when  any  sound 
broke  the  stillness,  its  echo  seemed  to  dwell  in  the  ear  for 
longer  than  usual,  dying  away  slowly,  as  if  loth  to  depart. 

The  wind  came,  levelling  the  snow  to  fill  the  hollows  of  the 
ground;  then  more  snow,  then  rain,  and  then  frost;  winter 
was  come  in  earnest,  come  to  stay.  Heavy,  murky  clouds 
shed  their  burden  of  snow,  but  passed  away  again;  winter 
had  many  aspects  and  was  never  one  thing  for  long  at  a 
time.  Westerly  winds  flung  the  snow  hither  and  thither, 
mountain  torrents  rushed  down  on  their  way  to  the  sea.  And 
then  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  wild  confusion,  would 
come  calm,  clear  nights,  of  ghostly  quiet,  no  sound  to  be 
heard  save  the  murmur  of  the  sea,  like  beating  of  the  wings 
of  time. 

And  men  lived  on,  under  the  heavy  yoke  of  winter.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  winter  itself  were  ever  trying  to  foist  itself 
upon  them,  claiming  acknowledgment  of  its  presence.  It 
set  its  mark  upon  the  window-panes,  thrust  itself  at  them 
through  the  cracks  of  doors;  but  they  strove  to  keep  it  out, 
thawing  the  pictures  on  their  windows,  bundling  the  snow 
from  their  thresholds  with  scant  ceremony,  even  with  abuse. 
No  wonder  that  the  winter  turned  spiteful  at  times,  lying  in 
wait  for  men  and  leading  them  astray  in  storms,  luring  them 

to   destruction  in  some  concealed  ravine  where  their  last 

133 


134  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

breath  could  be  offered  up  as  a  sacrifice  upon  its  altar.    It 
was  but  reasonable  so. 

This  winter,  the  Hofsf jordur  folk  had  little  time  to  spare 
for  contemplation  of  the  usual  struggle;  they  took  the  neces- 
sary steps  for  their  protection,  but  their  minds  were  largely 
occupied  with  other  matters. 

There  was  the  new  priest,  Sera  Ketill,  son  of  the  mighty 
King  of  Borg — and  he  gave  them  food  for  thought  in  abun- 
dance. From  his  first  sermon,  he  had  made  his  influence  felt, 
chiefly,  perhaps,  through  his  eloquence  and  the  depth  of  feel- 
ing he  seemed  to  display.  Then,  later,  it  became  evident  that 
there  was  a  certain  tendency  in  his  discourses ;  his  arguments 
pointed  towards  some  conclusion,  though  what  this  was  could 
hardly  be  seen  as  yet.  His  masterly  treatment  of  his  texts 
revealed  an  iron  will,  that  had  evidently  set  itself  some  great 
and  difficult  task. 

Sera  Ketill  revealed  himself  as  a  fanatic,  stern  and  merci- 
less in  his  interpretations  and  demands.  He  appeared  as  an 
idealist,  looking  ever  toward  the  goal  of  perfection,  which  he 
seemed  to  regard  as  undoubtedly  attainable.  In  his  judgments 
and  castigation  he  was  unrelenting  as  a  Jesuit;  his  doctrine 
was  clear  and  hard,  admitting  of  no  compromise:  if  the  eye 
offended,  pluck  it  out ;  if  the  offending  hand  were  nearer  and 
dearer  than  all  else,  there  was  still  no  way  but  one — cut  it 
off  and  cast  it  from  thee.  Thus  Sera  Ketill  taught  his  flock. 

Sunday  after  Sunday  the  church  was  full;  week  by  week 
Sera  Ketill  knit  more  closely  the  bond  between  his  parishioners 
and  himself.  At  first  they  admired  him,  but  it  was  not  long 
before  they  came  to  love  him.  What  had  been,  was  forgotten ; 
he  was  their  priest  now.  All  knew  that  Ormarr  was  to  inherit 
Borg  after  his  father,  and  it  was  not  difficult  to  forgive  Ketill 
for  having,  in  earlier  days,  cherished  other  hopes.  Plainly 
he  had  himself  been  the  first  to  mortify  the  flesh,  and  put 
away  his  own  worldly  desires.  And  who  should  call  him  to 
account  for  any  youthful  indiscretions?  After  all,  perhaps 
he  had  not  been  serious  in  his  reputed  intention  of  discontin- 
uing the  benign  and  considerate  rule  that  had  been  a  tradition 
of  the  Borg  family  towards  those  round  them.  His  sternness 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  135 

in  matters  spiritual,  on  the  other  hand,  was  unimpeachable; 
it  showed  his  earnest  desire  for  the  welfare  of  their  souls,  and 
those  who  followed  his  precepts  were  happy  in  so  doing, 
even  though  it  cost  them  something  to  break  with  the  old 
easy-going  ways.  Conscience  needed  to  be  kept  awake  and 
sensitive.  And  it  was  not  altogether  unpleasant  to  come  to 
church  and  be  rated  and  stormed  at  for  all  backslidings ;  one 
sat  listening  with  beating  heart,  subject  to  an  emotion  which 
Sera  Ketill's  predecessor  had  certainly  never  had  power  to 
call  forth.  The  wearisome  homilies  of  the  old  days,  full  of 
spiritless  and  superficial  argument,  had  made  it  hard  for 
them  to  keep  decorously  awake.  But  now,  it  was  a  different 
atmosphere  altogether.  "Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God 
with  all  thine  heart."  Also,  "Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbour 
as  thyself."  But  hence  it  followed  that  one  should  tolerate 
nothing  in  one's  neighbour  that  would  not  be  tolerated  in 
oneself.  "For  I  the  Lord  thy  God  am  a  jealous  God,"  ay, 
jealous  even  towards  His  children.  "Wherefore  it  behoved 
them  to  adopt  a  similar  attitude  towards  those  around  them. 
Wheresoever  anything  became  apparent  which  was  not  in  the 
spirit  of  God,  let  them  rise  up  and  denounce  it ;  if  they  suffered 
any  among  them  to  look  with  scorn,  or  even  with  indifference, 
upon  the  Holy  Word,  then  they  themselves  were  guilty.  And 
for  such  sinners  there  was  nothing  but  everlasting  damnation ; 
the  Scriptures  had  declared  it  plainly. 

Sera   Ketill's   doctrine   admitted   but   two   alternatives — 
either  heaven  or  hell. 

And  he  did  not  confine  his  teachings  to  the  pulpit.  His 
eyes  were  everywhere,  and  as  often  as  he  discovered  any- 
thing among  his  flock  that  was  not  according  to  his  teaching, 
he  was  ready  with  word  and  deed.  And  he  brooked  no 
resistance — he  spoke  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  Illegitimate 
relationships  that  had  gone  on  for  years  were  ordered  to  be 
legalized;  it  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  for  an  old  couple 
who  had  never  been  properly  married  to  appear  in  church  for 
the  ceremony  with  their  grown-up  children  as  witnesses.  A 
fever  of  zeal  spread  from  the  vicarage  throughout  the  parish. 
True,  there  were  occasional  murnmrings  from  those  who  were 


136  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

called  upon  to  mend  their  ways,  but  even  they  felt  the  power 
of  this  new  influence  in  their  hearts.  And  little  by  little  the 
flock  was  led  into  the  paths  of  righteousness. 

First  and  foremost,  Sera  Ketill  demanded  of  his  congrega- 
tion that  they  should  attend  regularly  for  worship  in  God's 
House,  where,  by  hearing  of  the  "Word,  their  hearts  might 
be  opened  to  receive  the  Lord.  Anything  beyond  a  single 
Sunday's  absence  called  forth  a  visit  and  a  reproof  for 
neglect.  Thus  it  was  not  long  before  Sera  Ketill  became  the 
unquestioned  leader  of  the  parish,  acknowledged  by  all. 

Among  the  poorer  folk  he  gained  great  popularity  by  fore- 
going his  right  of  grazing  on  their  land ;  here  was  an  example 
near  to  hand  of  the  self-denial  he  preached.  Such  a  thing 
had  hardly  been  heard  of  before.  Plainly,  Sera  Ketill  was 
one  who  himself  lived  up  to  his  principles. 

His  judgment  was  taken  as  infallible,  any  decision  on  his 
part  was  to  them  as  if  inspired  by  the  Almighty.  And  week 
by  week  they  grew  more  and  more  dependent  upon  him; 
every  Sunday  he  whittled  away  some  portion  of  the  spiritual 
independence  they  had  hitherto  enjoyed.  Yet  they  hardly 
felt  it  as  a  loss ;  they  were  made  to  feel  that  it  was  pleasing  to 
God  that  they  should  do  as  they  were  bidden. 

Sera  Ketill 's  doctrine  bore  the  outward  semblance  of  hal- 
lowed certainty  and  divine  infallibility.  But  there  was  some- 
thing vague  about  it  still,  something  that  had  not  yet  been  de- 
clared outright.  A  sense  of  expectancy,  half-unconscious, 
perhaps,  hung  over  the  parish.  "Whither  was  Sera  Ketill 
leading  them?  "What  was  it  that  was  coming? 

Ketill  himself  realized  well  enough  that  his  scope  of  oper- 
ations was  limited;  he  could  only  carry  matters  to  a  certain 
point.  Like  a  skilful  general,  he  carefully  estimated  the 
fighting  strength  at  his  disposal,  and  never  permitted  himself 
to  indulge  in  any  over-sanguine  imaginings  as  to  how  far  his 
people  would  follow  him  when  it  came  to  the  pinch.  Above 
all  things,  he  must  not  lose  his  head ;  must  not  act  prematurely. 
His  objective  was  clear,  but  it  could  only  be  reached  by 
patience.  Given  but  time  enough,  the  ripened  fruit  would 
fall  at  his  feet.  Meantime,  he  must  foster  the  growing  zeal 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  137 

among  his  flock;  in  time,  they  would  be  ready  for  any  out- 
burst of  fanaticism.  Not  too  quickly — no.  But  his  time 
would  surely  come. 

0rlygur  a  Borg  attended  service  regularly;  Sunday  after 
Sunday  he  listened  to  the  wild  outpourings  of  his  son.  And 
sorrow  and  wonder  grew  in  his  heart. 

Ketill  strove  to  maintain  his  appearance  of  sincerity  to- 
wards his  father,  but  he  knew  that  the  old  man  saw  through 
the  mask. 

0rlygur,  on  his  part,  for  all  that  he  had  declared  that 
Ketill  couild  no  longer  deceive  him,  found  it  hard  to  account 
for  his  son's  zeal.  If  he  were  not  serious,  then  why  .  .  . 
what  was  he  aiming  at?  But  again  and  again  he  felt  an 
instinctive  certainty  that  his  son 's  preaching  was  not  inspired 
by  any  divine  influence. 

And  apart  from  the  religious  aspect,  0rlygur  was  sorely 
troubled  to  see  the  people  thus  easily  led.  He  knew  his 
folk,  and  was  himself  a  leader  of  no  common  power ;  he  could 
not  but  wonder  now,  whither  they  were  being  led.  Also,  he 
knew  only  too  well  the  cold  reaction  that  often  follows  undue 
excitement. 

Many  a  long  winter  night  the  King  of  Borg  tossed  rest- 
lessly in  bed,  uttering  many  a  prayer  to  God — the  only  Being 
whose  superiority  he  acknowledged.  He  was  weighed  down 
by  a  sense  of  impending  disaster — there  was  trouble  coming, 
and  coming  swiftly  nearer. 

Ketill  was  the  leading  source  of  his  uneasiness;  again  and 
again  he  asked  himself  if  he  could  not  somehow  step  in  and 
avert  the  threatening  castastrophe.  But  he  racked  his  brains 
in  vain  to  find  any  way  in  which  he  could  act  as  things  were. 
What  was  there  for  him  to  oppose  ?  He  could  not  take  action 
against  his  son's  enthusiasm  in  the  cause  of  religion  and 
piety?  Heaven  forbid!  Was  he  to  endeavour  to  minimize 
the  devotion  of  the  people  to  their  God?  Even  though 
Ketill 's  heart  were  cold,  and  his  zeal  but  a  sham,  who  could 
say  but  that  he  might  yet  be  an  instrument  in  the  hand  of 
the  Lord — a  creature  inspired  as  to  his  deeds,  though  not  in 


138  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

spirit?  0rlygur  a  Borg  could  not  raise  his  hand  against 
Heaven. 

For  all  this,  his  suspicions  never  abated,  but  rather  in- 
creased, as  he  watched  the  growing  hold  of  his  son  upon  the 
parish.  Was  it  not  a  masked  attack  upon  the  supremacy  of 
Borg?  His  son  was  trying  to  usurp  his  place  as  chieftain. 
He  called  to  mind  the  story  of  David  and  Absalom,  and 
David's  bitter  lament  for  the  death  of  his  son.  And  he 
could  not  free  himself  from  the  thought  that  Heaven  must  be 
working  out  some  plan  with  Ketill,  the  prodigal;  at  times, 
also,  it  seemed  that  something  evil  were  lying  in  wait.  And, 
in  such  moments,  the  old  man  longed  to  take  his  son,  his 
child,  in  his  arms,  and  weep  over  him,  despite  all  the  wrong 
he  had  suffered  at  his  hands.  0rlygur  made  no  attempt  to 
disguise  from  himself  the  baseness  of  Ketill 's  conduct,  but 
he  fancied  it  might  be  the  will  of  God  moving  in  some  mysteri- 
ous way.  His  heart  was  torn  by  the  meanness  and  hypocrisy 
of  his  son;  he  felt  himself  wounded  to  the  death.  And  yet 
all  the  time  his  heart  was  bursting  with  a  desire  to  forgive. 

Nevertheless,  the  same  disgust  and  aversion  filled  him 
every  time  they  met.  He  felt  he  must  step  in  and  put  a 
stop  to  all  this  underhand  scheming  and  working;  Ketill  was 
a  creeping,  venomous  thing,  to  be  crushed  underfoot  ere  it 
had  wrought  irreparable  harm. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  0rlygur  felt  uncertain  of  him- 
self, wavering  as  to  his  proper  course  of  action.  He  doubted 
his  right  to  lead ;  doubted  even  if  he  had  been  right  up  to  now 
in  stewardship  under  God  of  all  that  was  His. 

He  searched  his  conscience,  yet  he  could  find  no  evil  there. 
Yet  what  if  his  judgment  of  himself  were  at  fault,  blinded 
by  pride  and  self-deceit?  How  should  a  man  judge  of  him- 
self?— God  alone  could  judge. 

The  brave  old  warrior  was  stricken  and  weakened  now ;  his 
own  flesh  and  blood  had  wounded  him,  and,  in  face  of  it,  doubt 
and  uncertainty  gripped  his  soul. 

The  winter  wore  on. 

Each  day  brought  the  foreboding  of  disaster  more  and  more 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  139 

prominently  to  0rlygur's  mind;  each  night  increased  the 
restless  tension  of  his  heart. 

Then  late  in  March  came  a  letter  from  Ormarr,  then  in 
Italy. 

The  news  was  encouraging;  Runa  had  borne  a  child,  a 
son,  some  weeks  before,  and  both  were  well.  Ormarr  and 
his  wife  were  happy  together;  Runa  appeared  to  have  for- 
gotten her  past  trouble,  and  Ormarr  did  his  best  not  to  revive 
any  unpleasant  memory.  He  himself  was  well  and  happy, 
though  longing  at  times  for  his  home  at  Borg ;  he  was  anxious 
to  return,  and  tend  and  comfort  his  father  in  the  last  years 
of  his  life. 

They  would  be  coming  back  as  early  as  could  be  managed, 
reaching  Iceland  in  June.  The  child  was  to  be  regarded  as 
newly  born;  it  could  hardly  be  difficult  to  conceal  the  exact 
truth  as  to  its  age.  And  as  0rlygur  knew,  they  had  been 
married  in  Denmark  the  previous  autumn.  Finally,  Ormarr 
bade  his  father  be  of  good  cheer,  and  wished  to  be  sincerely 
remembered  to  his  sister-in-law,  Alma. 

0rlygur  found  the  letter  encouraging,  yet  at  the  same 
time  there  was  something  in  it  that  saddened  him.  He  was 
glad  to  have  the  support  of  his  son's  youth  and  strength  in 
his  loneliness,  and  his  heart  went  out  to  the  boy  in  welcome. 
Here,  at  last,  he  would  have  some  one  he  could  trust,  some  one 
in  whom  he  could  confide.  But  at  the  same  time,  there  were 
fears  in  his  mind  as  to  what  would  come  when  Ormarr 
returned,  and  his  anxiety  increased  as  the  time  for  his  home- 
coming grew  nearer. 

Gloomy  dreams  haunted  his  sleep — a  thing  he  had  never 
known  before.  What  it  all  meant  was  beyond  him,  but  some- 
how, all  seemed  to  centre  round  the  idea  of  approaching  death. 
At  the  same  time,  he  realized  with  dread  that  there  might 
be  worse  in  store  for  him  than  death — something  more  terri- 
ble than  what  was  after  all  but  a  natural  end. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  winter  was  a  hard  time  for  Fru  Alma. 
Never,    surely,    had    a    tender,    womanly    heart 
been   so   overwhelmed   with   loneliness   and    doubt, 
conflicting  feelings  and  bewildering  thoughts,  or  borne  it  all 
with  greater  fortitude  and  patience. 

A  snow-white  lily  snatched  from  the  sunny  spring  and 
thrust  away  into  a  gloomy  loft.  And  what  is  the  wither- 
ing of  a  lily  to  the  agonies  of  a  human  heart?  Here  was  a 
human  creature,  plucked  from  a  careless  butterfly  existence 
under  a  cloudless  sky  of  youth,  and  transplanted  to  a  land  of 
grim  solemnity  and  earnest — the  home  of  Fate,  where  dreams 
and  omens  and  forebodings  reigned;  who  could  endure  it 
and  not  suffer? 

Alma's  soul  developed  in  adversity,  but  it  was  an  unnatural 
growth — the  growth  of  herbage  in  the  shade,  outwardly 
luxuriant,  no  more.  Such  growths,  once  brought  into 
the  light  of  the  sun,  must  wither  and  shrink,  to  rise  no 
more. 

Hardest  of  all,  perhaps,  was  the  monotony  of  her  life. 
Despite  the  changing  weather,  lengthening  days,  intercourse 
with  people  around  her  as  she  picked  up  a  little  more  of  the 
language,  despite  the  busy  Sundays,  it  was  a  sadly  unevent- 
ful existence,  and  there  seemed  no  hope  of  relief  in  the  future. 
The  coming  years  loomed  out  as  burdens  to  be  borne  in  due 
course,  days  of  drab  wakefulness,  with  restless  nights  of  evil 
dreams;  the  healing  rest  that  night  should  bring  was  but  a 
mirage. 

When  the  loneliness  became  unbearable  she  would  seek 
the  company  of  old  Kata,  or  of  the  other  servants.  And  her 
kindness  to  them  all  was  soon  known  far  and  wide.  Were 
any  in  trouble,  be  sure  Fru  Alma  would  not  pass  them  by; 

140 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  141 

her  generous  sympathy  was  recognized  by  all.  "The  Dan- 
ish Lady  at  Hof,"  they  called  her,  and  looked  to  her  as  one 
to  whom  any  appeal  for  help  should  naturally  be  made,  as  to 
a  patron  saint,  or  the  Son  of  God  Himself.  And  there  was 
no  irreverence  in  the  comparison. 

The  vicarage  was  constantly  besieged  by  beggars  and 
vagabonds;  Sera  Ketill,  scenting  personal  advantage  to  him- 
self in  his  wife's  reputation  for  charity,  encouraged  her  in 
the  work.  He  thanked  her — but  his  thanks  were  insincere 
and  superficial,  and  Alma  was  not  deceived.  She  and  old 
Kata  were  the  only  ones  who  saw  through  him,  each  in  her 
own  way.  The  two  women  never  spoke  of  him  together;  he 
was  the  one  theme  upon  which  they  never  exchanged  confi- 
dences. Alma  could  not  speak  ill  of  her  husband  to  any  one, 
and  it  was  not  old  Kata's  way  to  make  ill  worse.  Kata  knew 
exactly  what  went  on  at  the  vicarage,  and  she  was  the  only 
one  who  did.  0rlygur  was  only  partially  aware  of  the  true 
state  of  affairs  between  Ketill  and  his  wife. 

Kata,  who  herself  had  never  been  wife  nor  mistress  to  any 
man,  was  more  outspoken  with  Fru  Alma  than  she  had  ever 
been  with  any  other  soul.  She  found  in  her  a  creature  pure 
and  undefiled  as  herself,  a  nature  trustful  and  unsuspicious, 
with  that  high  confidence  that  gives  the  greatest  worth,  beyond 
what  ordinary  sense  can  perceive.  And  Kata  tested  her-  in 
many  ways  before  venturing  to  speak  freely;  but  Alma 
passed  every  ordeal  triumphantly,  unaware  that  she  was  being 
tried.  Chief  of  all  was  absolute,  voluntary  silence,  speaking 
of  a  matter  to  none  until  one  knew  that  speech  was  but  as 
speaking  to  oneself.  Good  wine  should  not  be  poured  into 
untried  vessels. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  old  Kata's  confidences  were  to 
Alma's  good  or  the  reverse.  In  any  case,  it  was  a  relief  to 
her  to  talk  with  the  old  woman,  and  at  first  she  paid  but 
little  heed  to  what  she  heard.  There  were  strange  themes 
which  she  would  never  have  dreamed  of  discussing  with  any 
one,  and  when  alone,  she  gave  them  but  little  thought. 


142  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Gradually,  however,  they  became  more  insistent,   and  laid 
firm  hold  on  her  mind. 

True,  she  never  saw  nor  heard  "things,"  as  old  Kata 
claimed  to  do;  she  was  not  given  to  seeing  visions,  and  cer- 
tainly had  no  claim  to  the  power  of  second  sight.  But  she 
had  strange  dreams  which  Kata,  when  in  the  mood,  would 
interpret  in  such  wise  that  Alma  became  thoroughly  convinced 
of  the  old  woman's  powers. 

They  had  strange  talks  together  at  times. 

"Why  is  it,  do  you  think,  Kata,"  Alma  might  ask,  "that 
there  is  always  more  suffering  than  joy  in  life?" 

"I  doubt  but  it's  all  because  they  crucified  the  Son  of 
God." 

"But  don't  you  think  there's  many  a  human  being  must 
have  suffered  as  much  as  He  did  ?  Others  have  been  crucified, 
you  know;  and  then  death  on  the  cross  is  not  the  worst  kind 
of  torture  that  could  be  imagined." 

"Nay,  there's  many  a  heavy  cross  to  be  borne,  that's  true. 
But  God  is  God,  and  that's  another  thing." 

Or  Fru  Alma  would  start  another  theme,  asking  Kata's 
views  as  to  whether  sufferings  of  human  beings  were  confined 
to  this  world,  or  if  there  were  perhaps  still  greater  pains  and 
trouble  to  come. 

Old  Kata  opined  that  each  and  every  one  would  receive  pun- 
ishment or  reward  according  to  their  doings  in  this  world. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Alma  quietly,  "that  we  are  so 
bound  by  inherited  weakness  and  sin  that  however  much  evil 
we  may  do,  we  cannot  fairly  be  judged  beyond  our  life  on 
earth." 

"There's  a  deal  in  that,  maybe,"  answered  Kata.  "And 
there's  many  a  poor  sinner  not  rightly  answerable  for  all 
they've  done.  But  God  is  God." 

One  day,  when  a  number  of  dead  bodies  from  a  wreck  had 
been  washed  ashore  in  the  fjord,  Alma  said: 

"Sometimes  I  can't  help  thinking  that  mankind,  for  all 
the  limitation  of  our  powers,  could  manage  some  things  more 
justly  at  least  than  Providence  seems  to  do." 

"Never    speak    like    that,"    said    old    Kata    warningly. 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  143 

"Think  of  the  'Scriptures.     'Tis  God's  finger  guiding  all." 

"Oh,  I  know  it's  a  blessed  thing  to  have  faith  in  time  of 
trouble.  And  as  long  as  it's  only  oneself  .  .  .  But  when 
something  dreadful  happens  to  others,  and  there  seems  no 
sense  nor  reason  for  it  all,  then  one  can't  help  asking,  why, 
what  is  it  all  for?  Surely  one  might  think  that  a  heavenly 
providence  would  be  kind,  and  work  for  our  good. ' ' 

"Ay,  'tis  strange  to  think,  no  doubt,"  answered  Kata. 
"And  there's  times  when  it's  hard  to  answer  such  things. 
But  God  is  God." 

This  last  expression  was  a  constant  formula  in  Kata's 
mouth,  which  to  herself  at  least  seemed  to  dispose  of  the  most 
difficult  problem. 

Alma  ventured  to  put  a  direct  question. 

"Have  you  never  felt  yourself,  sometime,  that  you  didn't 
really  want  to  say  'God's  will  be  done'?" 

"Now  you're  asking  me  something,"  said  Kata,  "and 
something  I  'd  not  answer  to  any  but  yourself. ' ' 

The  spinning-wheel  stopped,  and  Kata  paused ;  not  a  word 
was  uttered  for  some  moments.  At  last  the  old  woman  went 
on: 

"Once  there  was  a  poor  man  and  a  young  woman.  She 
was  not  rich,  neither,  but  they  two  were  fond  of  each  other, 
and  gave  each  other  promise.  They  would  wait  till  they 
could  buy  a  little  farm ;  it  might  take  years,  but  they  would 
wait.  You  know  the  hills  over  yonder  they  call  the  Dark 
Mountains.  Well,  the  young  man,  he  went  up  there  to  serve 
with  a  farmer  who  offered  him  good  wages.  And  the  girl, 
she  stayed  behind,  and  never  saw  him  all  that  summer.  But 
she  had  her  ring  to  look  at,  and  hope.  In  the  autumn,  he 
came  down  over  the  mountains  to  see  her.  And  there  came 
a  snowstorm  on  the  way,  and  he  was  frozen  to  death  in  the 
mountains.  ..." 

Old  Kata's  voice  had  changed;  its  tone  brought  tears  to 
Alma's  eyes,  and  though  the  speaker  herself  shed  never  a 
tear,  it  was  a  little  time  before  she  could  go  on. 

"Yes.  'Twas  a  hard  blow  to  my  faith  at  the  time,  and 
I  was  all  doubt  in  my  heart.  But  later  on  that  same  year 


144  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

I  learned  the  truth.  He  was  going  to  marry  the  daughter 
of  the  farmer  he'd  been  working  with,  and  only  came  down 
to  ask  me  to  give  back  the  ring  and  give  me  mine  again.  And 
then  I  said  'God's  will  be  done.'  'Twas  providence  clear 
enough.  'Tis  not  for  us  mortals  to  fathom  the  ways  of  God, 
and  there's  much  that  seems  mysterious,  ay,  and  hard  and 
unjust.  But  God  is  God.  And  we're  but  weak  things  in 
His  hand,  without  understanding.  But  for  all  that  we  can 
make  our  hearts  a  shining  light,  and  show  the  way  to  wan- 
derers that's  lost  the  way." 

When  Alma  knew  she  was  to  give  birth  to  a  child,  she 
gave  way  entirely,  and  pent-up  tears  burst  forth. 

"Oh,  how  could  it,  how  could  it  ever  come  like  this?"  she 
moaned. 

She  was  to  bring  forth  a  child  that  should  carry  the  nature 
of  its  father  or  its  mother — to  what  degree  she  could  not  say. 
And  the  prospect  of  a  child  she  felt  she  could  not  love  filled 
her  with  horror,  the  curse  of  a  joyless  motherhood.  If  only 
God  in  His  mercy  had  made  her  barren;  had  spared  her  the 
anguish  of  bringing  another  life  into  this  world  of  suffering 
and  misery. 

She  wept  herself  by  degrees  into  a  calmer  state,  and  a  sense 
of  pity  and  self-reproach  grew  up  in  her — pity  for  the  new 
little  being  to  come,  and  self-reproach  that  she  herself  was 
so  weak. 

Surely  it  was  sinful  to  look  forward  without  thankfulness 
to  motherhood,  a  sin  against  the  child  unborn. 

And  yet — how  could  she  ever  be  glad  ? 

Life  was  a  void  to  her;  she  had  no  desire  in  life  but  to 
cease  living.  Listlessly  she  saw  the  days  go  by,  the  burden 
of  her  sorrow  ever  increasing. 

But  those  around  her  paid  little  heed;  they  had  seen  so 
many  young  mothers  who  seemed  to  think  themselves  laden 
with  all  the  trouble  of  all  the  world. 

0rlygur  a  Borg  noticed  her  condition,  and  saw,  too,  that 
she  took  no  pleasure  in  the  prospect.  His  heart  was  touched 
at  the  thought,  and  his  tenderness  towards  her  increased. 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  145 

Often  on  Sundays  he  would  arrive  some  time  before  the 
service,  in  order  to  see  her,  and  if  he  could,  console  her  a  little. 

They  went  to  church  together,  the  old  man  and  the  young 
woman;  Alma  still  sat  in  her  old  place  beside  his.  And  she 
was  grateful  for  his  kindness  and  friendliness;  he  seemed 
to  her  the  most  lovable  man  she  had  ever  known. 

One  Sunday,  just  before  church,  Ketill  happened  to  return 
to  the  house,  and  found  his  father's  overcoat  hanging  in  the 
hall.  The  lining  was  outward,  and  the  corner  of  an  envelope 
showed  in  the  pocket. 

Ketill  glanced  round,  listened,  and  seized  the  letter,  slipped 
into  a  room  close  by  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Hurriedly  he  read  the  message  through.  It  was  Ormarr's 
letter  telling  of  the  birth  of  Runa's  child. 

Ketill 's  hands  trembled,  and  his  face  flushed.  With  a  nerv- 
ous laugh  he  thrust  the  letter  into  his  pocket.  Then,  as 
by  an  afterthought,  he  took  it  out  again,  stood  for  a  moment 
irresolute,  and  making  sure  he  was  not  observed,  put  it  back 
in  the  coat  from  which  he  had  taken  it. 

He  went  back  to  join  his  father  and  Alma,  in  the  sitting- 
room,  trying  hard  to  appear  unmoved.  But  he  felt  he  could 
not  quite  control  himself,  and  began  fumbling  among  some 
papers  on  the  writing-table.  He  was  still  thus  occupied 
when  the  bell  rang  for  the  last  time.  His  wife  and  0rlygur 
would  have  waited  for  him,  but  he  bade  them  go  on,  saying 
he  would  follow  immediately. 

Ketill  waited  till  their  steps  had  died  away,  then  hurried 
out  to  the  hall ;  he  knew  he  was  now  alone  in  the  house.  He 
took  down  the  coat,  and  let  it  fall  to  the  ground,  where  it 
might  seem  to  have  slipped  from  the  peg.  Then  he  took  the 
letter  from  the  envelope,  and  laid  it  unfolded  by  the  coat,  as 
if  it  had  fallen  out. 

This  done,  he  hurried  across  to  the  church.  On  the  way 
he  stopped,  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  beckoning  to  a  lad  near, 
whispered : 

"I  left  my  pocket-book  on  the  writing-table  in  my  room. 
Run  in  and  fetch  it  for  me." 

The  boy  ran  off  to  obey,  and  passing  through  the  hall  noticed 


146  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

the  coat  lying  on  the  floor.  He  stopped  to  pick  it  up, 
and  caught  sight  of  the  letter.  He  glanced  through  it, 
hardly  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  and  finally  left  every- 
thing as  he  had  found  it. 

When  he  reached  the  church  with  the  pocket-book,  he 
was  evidently  ill  at  ease;  those  who  remarked  it  put  it  down 
to  embarrassment  at  attracting  attention. 

Sera  Ketill's  sermon  was  not  so  effective  today  as  usual. 
Possibly  his  delivery  was  in  part  responsible.  The  priest 
seemed  curiously  absent;  once  or  twice  he  even  came  to  a 
standstill,  and  had  to  cast  about  for  words. 

It  was  the  custom  for  none  to  leave  the  church  till  the  priest 
and  his  family  had  left.  Sera  Ketill  seemed  in  a  remarkable 
hurry  today.  He  strode  across  to  the  house  at  once,  and 
quickly. 

Coat  and  letter  lay  where  he  had  left  them,  but  had  evi- 
dently been  moved.  Ketill  smiled.  He  picked  up  the  letter, 
slipped  it  into  the  envelope,  and  put  it  back  in  the  pocket. 
He  had  barely  finished  when  0rlygur  and  Alma  entered. 

0rlygur  had  noticed  nothing,  but  Alma  thought  it  strange 
to  find  her  husband  there  in  the  hall,  after  he  had  made  such 
haste  to  leave  the  church,  doing  something  with  his  father's 
coat. 

Her  heart  beat  fast,  and  she  turned  to  0rlygur. 

"Another  time,  father,  when  you  hang  your  overcoat  up 
like  that,  be  sure  there  is  nothing  in  the  pockets." 

As  she  spoke,  hardly  realizing  what  she  had  said,  at  first, 
the  consciousness  of  her  own  suspicions  of  her  husband  came 
to  her  suddenly,  and  she  flushed. 

0rlygur  laughed,  and  answered: 

"I  don't  think  there  is  anything  to  be  afraid  of." 

And  he  felt  in  his  pockets.  "Nothing  here  but  a  letter 
from  Ormarr,  and  any  one's  welcome  to  read  that." 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  a  moment  afterwards,  recollecting 
the  contents,  he  turned  pale.  Alma  noticed  it,  but  tried  to 
appear  unconcerned. 

When  0rlygur  had  gone,  she  remained  standing,  deep 
in  thought. 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  147 

It  dawned  upon  her  that  there  must  be  some  connection 
between  her  husband's  evident  nervousness  and  0rlygur's 
sudden  start.  What  it  could  be  she  was  unable  to  imagine. 

Outwardly  calm,  she  rejoined  her  husband. 

"Your  father  showed  me  a  letter  he  had  just  received  from 
Ormarr. ' ' 

"Did  he  show  it  to  you?" 

Ketill  sprang  up  suddenly,  and  came  towards  her,  but  she 
appeared  not  to  notice,  and  went  on : 

"Ormarr  and  his  wife  are  getting  on  nicely.  They  are 
in  Naples,  and  expect  to  be  home  early  in  June. ' ' 

"Did  you  read  the  letter?"  asked  Ketill,  with  a  careless 
air. 

"No.     0rlygur  told  me  what  was  in  it." 

Alma  was  watching  her  husband's  face,  and  could  not  fail 
to  mark  the  smile  with  which  he  greeted  her  last  remark. 
Evidently,  he  had  got  hold  of  the  letter  himself  somehow,  and 
found  in  it  something  that  0rlygur  would  not  willingly  have 
known. 

"With  bowed  head,  she  left  the  room,  and  went  to  her  bed- 
room, threw  herself  on  the  bed,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Her  husband  was  a  thief — a  priest,  and  a  thief. 

What  a  cruel  burden  was  this  Heaven  had  laid  upon  her. 
What  would  this  man's  child  be?  Oh  that  the  Lord  would 
take  it  before  ever  it  woke  to  life ! 

Alma  wept  long  and  bitterly,  falling  at  last  into  a  heavy 
sleep.  It  lasted  but  a  little  while,  however,  and  she  awoke  in 
high  fever. 

She  was  put  to  bed,  and  a  doctor  sent  for.  But  before  he 
could  reach  her,  the  trouble  was  over — Alma  had  given  her 
child  to  the  world — stillborn. 

When  Alma  came  to  herself,  she  saw  her  husband  bending 
over  the  little  body,  which  they  would  not  allow  her  to  see. 
Ketill 's  face  showed  neither  tears  nor  sorrow. 

And  she  thought  to  herself :  I  shall  die  now.  And  it  will 
be  laid  in  the  earth  by  my  side,  with  never  a  kindly  look 
from  any  human  being  in  this  world. 

With  an  effort  she  managed  to  raise  herself  on  her  elbow 


148  GUEST  THE  ONE-.BYED 

and  glance  down  into  the  cradle  where  the  little  body  lay. 
It  was  all  uncovered,  on  a  white  sheet,  so  very  small  and  grey, 
with  little  white  finger-nails.  The  sight  was  like  a  hot 
steel  in  her  heart.  And  with  a  cry  she  fell  back,  uncon- 
scious. 

For  several  days  Alma  lay  between  life  and  death,  and 
when  at  last  the  crisis  was  passed,  she  looked  up  to  find  old 
Kata  by  her  side. 

The  old  woman  smiled  encouragingly,  but  would  not  let 
her  speak. 

"Lie  still,  my  dear;  the  worst  is  over  now." 

A  day  or  two  later,  when  Alma  was  well  enough  to  sit  up 
in  bed  a  little,  she  asked : 

"How  long  have  I  been  lying  here,  Kata?" 

"This  is  the  tenth  day." 

"Have  I  been  ill  so  long?  And  who  has  been  watching 
besides  you  ? ' ' 

"Nay,  I'd  have  none  but  myself  for  that.  I've  slept  a 
little  now  and  again." 

Alma  grasped  the  old  woman's  wrinkled  hand. 

"How  ever  could  you,  Kata!  And  how  can  I  ever  thank 
you?" 

"No  need  to  try,  my  dear.  'Tis  enough  that  you're  getting 
well  again." 

"Have  I — did  I  talk  in  my  sleep  at  all?" 

"Nay,  nothing  to  worry  about.  Said  this  and  that,  maybe, 
but  I  paid  no  heed." 

Kata  busied  herself  about  the  room,  avoiding  Alma's  eyes. 
' '  'Tis  no  use  listening  to  feverish  talk, ' '  she  added. 

During  the  long  days  that  followed,  while  Alma  was  in 
bed,  Kata  told  her  fairy  stories  about  kings  and  princes,  with 
some  idea  of  diverting  her  thoughts.  And  Alma  could  not 
but  smile  at  the  old  woman's  curious  ideas  as  to  the  life  of 
royalty;  she  did  not,  however,  attempt  to  correct  her  impres- 
sions. 

But  once,  in  a  pause,  Alma  broke  in  suddenly: 

"Poor  little  mite — lying  out  there  in  the  cold." 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  149 

She  had  learned  of  the  burial  of  her  child  some  time  before. 
And  she  fell  to  crying  softly  at  the  thought. 
Old  Kata  came  to  the  bedside  and  stroked  her  hand. 
"All's  in  God's  hand,"  she  said.     "And  all  for  the  best." 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  Alma  rose  from  her  bed  after  six  weeks'  ill- 
ness, she  was  but  a  shadow  of  her  former  self.  Her 
face  was  pale,  with  a  yellow  tinge,  and  her  figure 
wasted  to  a  degree  painful  to  see.  She  was  hardly  more  than 
a  skeleton.  Her  dark  eyes  seemed  larger,  and  glowed  with  a 
strange,  hard  light,  such  as  is  seen  in  the  still-open  eyes  of 
one  frozen  to  death.  Her  brown  hair  no  longer  stood  in  a 
luxuriant  cluster  round  her  head;  much  of  it  had  fallen  out, 
leaving  hardly  enough  to  cover  the  scalp  and  make  a  pitiful 
little  knot  at  the  back. 

She  had  seen  but  little  of  her  husband  during  her  illness. 
Twice  daily  he  had  paid  her  a  brief,  formal  visit;  but  only 
a  few  words  were  exchanged  between  them,  and  neither  found 
any  pleasure  in  seeing  the  other.  He  slept  in  a  different  part 
of  the  house,  and  they  avoided  each  other  as  far  as  possible. 

Ketill  could  not  help  noticing  that  his  wife  shunned  him, 
but,  occupied  as  he  was  with  his  own  affairs,  it  affected  him 
hardly  at  all 

Alma  went  about  the  house  quietly,  as  she  had  always  done, 
with  a  smile  and  a  kindly  word  for  all.  But  though  none 
seemed  to  notice  any  change  in  her  manner,  her  greetings  were 
less  heartily  felt  than  before.  Her  heart  was  dead  within 
her,  and  something  was  straining,  straining  to  an  intolerable 
tension,  until  it  seemed  impossible  to  last.  Something  must 
happen  soon. 

She  often  went  out  to  the  little  mound  where  her  child  lay 
buried,  and  would  stand  for  hours  looking  down  at  it. 
Strange,  to  have  a  part  of  oneself  lying  there  under  the 
frozen  earth  and  yet  to  go  about  oneself  with  the  warm  blood 
pulsing  in  one's  veins.  It  seemed  unreal,  yet  it  was  reality. 
Life  seemed  to  have  changed  altogether. 

She  was  no  longer  glad  that  the  child  had  not  lived.     There 

150 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  151 

had  been  a  time  when  she  had  hoped  for  that  very  thing,  but 
when  her  wish  was  realized,  came  pangs  of  conscience  that 
destroyed  her  relief  at  its  fulfilment.  She  no  longer  thought  of 
what  her  life  might  have  been  had  the  child  lived ;  she  forgot 
that  she  had  ever  feared  its  birth ;  she  had  no  feeling  now  but 
sorrow  for  its  death,  and  remorse  that  she  had  wished  for  it. 

Often  old  Kata  would  come  to  the  churchyard  to  fetch  her, 
gently  reproaching  her  for  staying  there  so  long. 

' '  "Pis  no  good  to  let  all  the  sad  thoughts  stay  in  your  mind. 
There's  life  to  be  lived;  you  must  not  go  wandering  off  among 
the  dead  so." 

And  Alma  would  answer  with  a  listless  smile.  One  day 
she  asked : 

"Do  you  think,  Kata,  that  there  really  is  any  life  in  the 
world?" 

"Ay,  indeed,  there  is.  And  if  the  Lord  takes  one  joy  from 
us,  surely  He  will  give  something  else  in  its  place." 

"I  am  not  complaining,"  Alma  replied.  "I  have  never 
complained.  But  I  have  seen  heavy  crosses  laid  on  weak 
shoulders. ' ' 

"They  that  seem  weak  can  often  bear  the  heaviest  burden. 
'Tis  a  sorrowful  world,  but,  after  all,  'tis  only  a  moment  in 
eternity.  And  maybe  we're  only  here  to  be  tried  in  the  fire, 
with  trouble  and  affliction,  and  the  ones  that  suffer  most  are 
those  God  loves  the  best.  As  if  He  was  taking  special  pains 
with  them,  so  they  could  be  sooner  ready  to  come  to 
Him." 

One  day,  as  Alma  and  Kata  were  standing  in  the  church- 
yard, two  ravens  flew  by.  They  flew  over  the  church,  and  old 
Kata  eyed  them  anxiously,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Then,  in  a  trembling  voice,  she  said: 

"They  flew  over  the  church.  'Tis  a  sign  that  some  one '11 
be  called  away  before  long."  And  murmuring  so  that  Alma 
could  scarcely  hear,  she  added:  "If  it  be  Thy  will,  O  Lord, 
I  should  be  taken,  then  Thy  will  be  done ! ' ' 

But  to  herself  she  thought:  "If  it  should  be  the  young 
mistress  that's  called,  then  Heaven  be  praised.  I  am  old  and 
hard,  I  can  wear  on  for  a  few  years  more,  but  the  burden's 


152  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

over-heavy  on  her;  if  the  Lord  would  take  her  in  His  mercy 
.  God's  will  be  done." 


During  the  period  of  Alma's  illness,  a  certain  amount  of 
unrest  had  made  itself  apparent  in  the  parish. 

First  of  all,  there  were  rumours  abroad.  No  one  could 
say  where  they  had  started,  or  how ;  it  was  impossible  to  trace 
anything  more  than  the  inevitable  ' '  So-and-so  said  so-and-so. ' ' 
But  the  rumours  were  of  a  startling  character,  and  it  was 
highly  desirable  to  find  out  whether  they  originated  from  a 
reliable  source  or  not. 

Briefly,  the  matter  was  this :  it  was  whispered  that  Ormarr  's 
wife  had  given  birth  to  her  child  as  far  back  as  the  beginning 
of  March. 

And  people  made  their  calculations.  The  marriage 
had  taken  place  at  the  beginning  of  September  the  previous 
year.  That  made  the  birth  a  great  deal  earlier  than  it  should 
have  been.  And  yet  the  child  was  reported  to  be  strong  and 
well,  by  no  means  as  if  born  before  its  time. 

It  was  mysterious.  The  good  folk  searched  their  memories ; 
they  could  recall  nothing  unseemly  in  Buna's  behaviour 
as  they  had  known  her ;  far  from  it.  The  marriage  had  been 
rather  sudden,  true,  but  they  had  found  nothing  very 
extraordinary  in  that.  The  girl  had  been  waiting  for  Ormarr, 
no  doubt;  no  one  had  ever  heard  any  other  man's  name 
coupled  with  hers.  It  was  looked  on  as  a  pretty  example  of 
a  maiden 's  patient  waiting  for  her  chosen  lover,  and  Runa  had 
risen  in  the  general  esteem  thereby.  But  now — there  were 
those  who  began  to  consider  whether  they  might  not  have 
been  over-hasty  in  their  conclusions. 

It  looked  as  if  there  were  something  more  behind  it.  And 
it  was  not  pleasant  to  find  that  one  had  been  deceived. 

Nothing  had  leaked  out  as  to  Sera  Ketill  's  little  affair  with 
his  foster-sister  some  months  earlier,  and  no  one  now  thought 
for  a  moment  of  connecting  him  in  any  way  with  the  business. 

But  who  could  be  the  father  ? 

Folk  racked  their  brains  to  find  one.  Some  had  their  own 
idea,  but  it  would  have  required  a  bold  spirit  to  give  it  utter- 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  Hotf  153 

ance.  The  name  of  0rlygur  a  Borg  rose  to  the  minds  of  many. 
He  was  the  only  man  with  whom  Runa  had  been  on  intimate 
terms,  and  for  whom  she  was  known  to  have  cherished  any 
affection.  That  it  should  have  led  to  such  a  result  none  had 
ever  dreamt — who  could  have  believed  it? 

But  there  it  was.  Live  and  learn — the  lesson  in  this  case 
being  a  warning  against  misplaced  confidence. 

Old  0rlygur  had  played  his  part  well,  and  had  been  trusted 
farther  than  he  should.  No,  there  was  no  trusting  any  these 
days. 

But  why  had  he  not  married  the  girl  himself  ? 

'Twas  simple  enough — it  was  too  late,  and  it  would  not  do 
to  sully  the  good  repute  of  the  family.  He  would  never 
have  survived  the  reproach  had  his  wife  been  prematurely 
confined,  and  for  him  to  marry  a  young  wife  at  all — a  mere 
child — was  hardly  suited  to  his  dignity.  So  he  had  taken 
this  way  out  of  it.  Sent  the  girl  out  of  the  country  with  his 
son,  giving  them  strict  orders  to  remain  away  long  enough 
to  guard  against  any  doubt  as  to  the  child  being  theirs. 

He  had  sacrificed  his  son,  that  was  all. 

Originally,  it  had  been  intended  that  Sera  Ketill  should 
inherit  the  estate.  Every  one  was  aware  of  that.  And  then 
one  day  comes  Ormarr — on  a  visit  only — and  before  you 
had  time  to  turn  round,  he  had  sold  his  business  and  got 
married.  It  was  sudden,  to  say  the  least. 

And  folk  went  farther. 

As  far  as  they  knew,  Sera  Ketill 's  marriage  had  come 
rather  as  a  surprise  to  his  father.  Ah,  the  old  fox!  He 
had  reckoned,  no  doubt,  on  getting  his  younger  son  to  take 
over  the  paternity  together  with  the  estate.  Then,  by  the 
wildest  piece  of  luck,  when  Ketill  upsets  his  plans  by  coming 
home  married  already,  Ormarr  makes  all  right  again  by  com- 
ing back  himself. 

Ay,  the  Devil  was  kind  to  his  own ! 

It  was  not  long  before  the  parish  had  put  two  and  two 
together,  and  realized  that  Sera  Ketill  must  have  been  aware 
of  the  whole  thing  from  the  first. 

Here  was  the  thought  that  inspired  his  preaching !    Plain 


154  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

to  see  now  the  aim  of  all  this  Christian  zeal.  'Twas  the 
preparation  for  a  struggle  that  he  had  known  was  bound  to 
come ;  they  had  been  watching  it  all  the  winter,  never  dreaming 
what  lay  behind. 

And  now  it  was  beginning  to  get  exciting.  What  did  Sera 
Ketill  intend  to  do  ?  Would  he  break  with  his  family  openly  ? 
If  so,  how  would  it  be  done  ? 

The  church  was  filled  as  never  before;  the  listeners  care- 
fully analysed  the  discourse  from  the  pulpit,  seeking  some 
clue  that  fitted  in  with  their  ideas,  some  hint  as  to  what  was 
coming.  But  they  learned  nothing. 

•Sera  Ketill,  on  his  part,  saw  that  his  plan  had  succeeded. 
He  could  mark  the  growth  of  the  seed  in  the  faces  of  his 
flock  from  Sunday  to  Sunday.  And  deliberately  he  made 
his  allusions  vaguer  and  more  general;  now  that  all  would 
make  the  proper  application  of  whatever  he  said,  there  was 
no  need  for  himself  to  deliver  any  direct  attack. 

It  was  a  drama,  played  Sunday  after  Sunday  in  the  church 
between  father  and  son — and  the  onlookers  were  thrilled  with 
a  sense  of  some  terrible  end  approaching. 

Parochial  disputes  were  nothing  new,  but  up  to  now  the 
people  of  Borg  had  always  stood  united  on  one  side  or  the 
other,  and  their  side  had  invariably  won.  But  this  was  dif- 
ferent; this  was  civil  war — a  house  divided  against  itself. 
And  it  meant  a  battle  the  like  of  which  had  never  been  known 
in  the  records  of  the  place. 

The  only  drawback  was  that  there  seemed  no  possibility 
of  doubt  as  to  how  it  must  end — unless  some  new  development 
occurred  meanwhile.  Not  only  had  Sera  Ketill  right  on  his 
side,  but  the  Almighty  was  with  him.  And,  moreover,  he 
had  taken  the  precaution  to  enlist  the  entire  congregation 
under  his  banner. 

Altogether,  it  would  need  something  like  a  miracle  to  get 
that  old  fox  0rlygur  out  of  the  trap.  No  use  for  him  to 
gnaw  off  a  pinioned  leg  or  brush — he  was  gripped  round  the 
middle,  and  there  was  no  escape. 

The  thought  of  this  great  idol's  fall  was  a  thing  to  make 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  155 

one  shudder ;  even  though  he  were  to  fall  by  his  own  misdeeds, 
one  could  hardly  help  pitying  him. 

After  all,  0rlygur  a  Borg  had  always  been  their  friend. 
None  had  ever  been  so  ready  to  help,  so  open-handed,  as 
he.  ...  But  he  had  always  been  a  proud  sort,  0rlygur  a  Borg, 
and  pride  goeth  before  a  fall. 

It  was  rather  a  conflict  between  a  mortal  and  the  Higher 
Powers — and  they  were  not  so  presumptuous  as  to  think  of 
taking  any  part  themselves.  He  would  have  to  manage  by 
himself — even  if  it  meant  ruin  and  disgrace  in  the  end. 
However  they  might  feel  towards  0rlygur,  the  general 
benefactor,  they  were  not  disposed  to  take  up  arms  against  the 
Lord  Himself  for  his  sake. 

And  what  said  Sera  Ketill  so  insistently:  "If  thy  hand 
offend  thee,  cut  it  off.  ..."  Ay,  even  if  that  hand  were 
a  brother,  a  near  kinsman.  .  .  . 

Ay,  Sera  Ketill  knew  how  to  choose  his  words. 

And  if  he  did  not  venture  now  to  take  his  father's  part, 
but  stood  up  and  opposed  him  at  whatever  cost,  it  was  surely 
because  he  realized  that  God's  commandments  must  come 
before  all  else. 

The  spirit  of  hypocrisy  made  its  triumphal  progress 
through  the  parish. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  fanatical  intolerance  which 
reigned  that  0rlygur's  innumerable  good  deeds  were  forgotten 
in  the  storm  of  righteous  indignation  that  rose  against  him. 
Folk  great  and  small  set  themselves  up  in  judgment  upon 
their  old  chieftain  and  found  it  easy  to  discover  some  selfish 
motive  behind  every  kindly  and  generous  act  of  his  in  the  past. 
Those  who  owed  him  most  were  sternest  in  their  condemna- 
tion, and,  in  default  of  actual  proof,  were  not  afraid  of 
altering  facts  to  support  their  case.  And  they  quieted  con- 
science by  the  thought  that  even  if  all  were  not  exactly  as 
they  put  it,  there  was  still  evidence  enough  against  0rlygur 
to  satisfy  any  reasonable  mind.  A  little  touch  of  colour  one 
way  or  another  made  no  difference. 

The  people  had  chosen;  0rlygur  was  already  worsted  and 
down.  Certain  of  the  result,  they  had  declared  for  the  win- 


156  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

ning  side — a  fine  example  of  the  unstable  character  of  human- 
ity, a  weathercock  moved  by  every  puff  of  wind. 

•  •••••• 

Ketill  was  only  waiting  for  the  return  of  his  brother  and 
sister-in-law. 

He  felt  a  slight  nervousness  in  the  anticipation,  though  he 
felt  confident  in  his  own  mind  as  to  the  result  of  the  blow 
he  was  prepared  to  deliver.  His  plan  was  complete  in  all 
details,  all  preliminary  steps  had  been  taken:  he  had  but  to 
wait  for  the  decisive  moment  to  strike. 

But  the  waiting  was  monotonous.  He  had  nothing  more 
to  do,  and  his  mind  in  idleness  was  plagued  by  distressing 
thoughts.  <",  i  j|  ";  i 

If  only  he  had  some  one  to  share  things  with,  a  companion 
after  his  own  heart.  He  was  realizing  now  what  it  was  to  be 
lonely.  He  even  sought  the  company  of  his  wife,  but  soon 
observed  that  she  shunned  him  as  far  as  possible. 

The  gulf  of  silence  between  them  had  become  almost  im- 
passable, and  he  read  enmity  and  suspicion  in  her  glance. 

He  had  never  meant  to  be  unkind  to  her.  Maybe  he  had 
been  a  little  neglectful  at  times — but  she  ought  surely  to  have 
realized  herself  how  busy  he  was,  and  how  hard  it  was  for  him 
to  find  any  time  for  little  attentions. 

He  had  time  enough  now,  and  would  have  been  glad  to 
make  up  for  the  past,  if  only  by  way  of  finding  some  com- 
fort himself  in  his  loneliness.  His  mind  was  suffering  under 
a  growing  burden  of  isolation. 

In  the  daytime  he  could  generally  find  something  to  do, 
but  the  evenings  were  long,  and  the  nights  often  unbearable. 
He  could  not  sleep,  and  his  nerves  soon  began  to  feel  the  ef- 
fect of  insufficient  rest;  he  had  to  struggle,  too,  against 
haunting  thoughts  that  left  him  almost  physically  exhausted. 

Sometimes  he  even  considered  whether  it  might  not  be 
better  to  give  up  the  whole  scheme.  But  after  all  the  pains 
he  had  taken  to  prepare  it — no,  he  could  not  give  up  now. 
If  he  stayed  his  hand,  all  would  be  lost. 

His  wife  seemed  lost  to  him.  She  was  coldly  reserved,  and 
utterly  unresponsive  towards  his  advances.  And  his  con- 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  157 

science  troubled  him.  He  could  almost  see  himself,  at  times, 
with  her  eyes ;  hear  how  his  own  words  rang  false  in  her  ears. 
He  was  a  cheat — and  what  was  worse,  he  had  been  found  out. 

Even  if  he  gave  up  his  plans  now,  it  would  not  help  him. 
He  could  never  win  her  back  again,  of  that  he  was  sure. 

With  his  father,  too,  it  was  equally  hopeless.  0rlygur 
would  never  trust  him  again,  whatever  he  might  do;  and  it 
was  not  to  Ketill's  taste  to  humble  himself  to  no  avail. 

No !  If  he  gave  up  now,  he  would  be  utterly  alone  thence- 
forward. The  people  would  desert  him,  for  his  preaching 
would  no  longer  have  any  definite  aim;  his  doctrine  would 
lack  its  dominant  purpose.  He  would  be  alone,  forsaken  by 
all,  without  a  friend  among  his  flock,  his  kin,  or  even  in  him- 
self ;  alienated  even  from  his  God.  A  creature  to  be  despised, 
or  pitied;  a  thing  of  no  account,  unworthy  either  of  hatred 
or  affection.  Intolerable! 

No ;  if  he  were  to  be  alone,  he  would  at  least  have  power. 
If  he  could  not  win  the  trust  and  affection  of  his  people,  he 
would  at  least  command  their  obedience  and  outward  re- 
spect. No  one  should  have  the  right  to  accuse  him  of 
weakness. 

Such  were  his  conflicting  thoughts  as  the  days  went  on. 
Ketill  was  thoroughly  wearied  of  inaction;  he  longed  for 
the  moment  when  he  could  act,  as  a  child  longs  for  its 
birthday.  Again  and  again  he  pictured  to  himself  the  events 
of  that  day,  conjuring  up  visions  of  his  triumph;  his  one 
desire  now  was  for  it  to  come,  and  make  an  end  of  the 
waiting. 

Also,  he  began  to  feel  less  sure  of  himself;  to  fear  lest 
at  the  critical  moment  his  nerve  might  fail  him. 

Once  he  had  declared  himself,  however,  there  could  be 
no  question  of  withdrawal;  all  doubt  and  wavering  would 
disappear;  there  he  would  stand,  erect  and  strong,  the 
victor  in  a  struggle  that  he  had  vowed  to  win  or  die. 

He  was  not  blind  to  the  danger  of  any  weakness  on  his 
own  part;  irresolution  would  be  fatal.  But  once  he  could 
take  the  decisive  step,  leaving  himself  no  possibility  of 
retreat,  all  would  be  well, 


158  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Victory  was  certain — for  he  was  fighting  without  mercy, 
as  injustice  ever  does. 


Alma  went  about  in  the  same  dull,  listless  state  as  before. 
She  seemed  to  be  living  in  a  world  apart  from  all  that 
went  on  around  her. 

She  noticed  her  husband's  restlessness,  and  that  he  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  approach  her.  But  she  put  it  down  to  his 
weakness  and  lack  of  society — a  need  for  companionship  of 
any  sort.  And  as  a  result,  her  antipathy  increased.  She 
was  good  enough — in  default  of  all  else !  But  at  other  times 
he  cared  nothing  for  her.  It  was  not  for  her  sake,  not  for 
herself,  he  sought  her.  Ketill  never  realized  how  his  neglect 
had  isolated  her  in  a  prison  of  solitude. 

It  was  impossible  to  speak  to  him  about  the  state  of 
things  between  them;  he  would  only  gloss  it  over  with  an 
utter  disregard  of  the  truth.  And  any  open  insincerity 
and  falsehood  on  his  part  would  bring  matters  to  a  climax; 
she  would  be  unable  to  restrain  her  feelings.  What  would 
happen  exactly,  she  did  not  know;  she  did  not  venture  to 
consider  the  possibility.  It  seemed  impossible  that  she  could 
ever  survive  such  a  revelation. 

And  yet  she  had  a  painful  intuition  that  it  would  come, 
and  that  she  would  survive  it.  It  was  horrible  to  think 
that  she  must  go  on  living  after  that.  Were  she  but  certain 
that  it  would  kill  her,  she  would  gladly  do  her  best  to  bring 
matters  to  a  head  instead  of  avoiding  and  dreading  it. 

But  for  the  present  the  wheels  of  time  seemed  to  have 
stopped;  life  was  at  a  standstill. 

Even  the  solitude  she  sought  in  her  wanderings  about 
the  country  seemed  dreadful  to  her  now.  Ice  and  snow, 
ice  and  snow — the  outlook  was  so  bleak  and  desolate  that 
it  brought  her  mind  to  the  verge  of  insanity. 

Her  head  ached  intensely  as  she  looked  out  over  the 
snow-covered  waste;  her  brain,  seemed  on  the  point  [pf. 
bursting,  she  felt  herself  fighting  to  retain  her  mental 
balance.  Once  she  gave  way  there  would  be  no  recovery. 

She  would  find  a  dark  corner  somewhere,  and  sit  down 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  159 

with  her  head  in  her  hands,  rocking  to  and  fro.  Snow 
and  barren  waste — the  sight  of  it  worked  on  her  till  she 
dared  not  face  it. 

Then  came  the  sunshine  of  spring,  and  she  could  go 
out  once  more.  The  snow  was  still  there,  but  there  were 
breaks  in  its  monotonous  expanse.  And  day  by  day  she 
watched  it  disappear. 

Then  at  last  one  day  she  heard  the  roar  of  the  stream 
as  it  broke  through  the  ice  of  its  winter  bondage.  She 
hurried  out  to  look. 

The  ice  had  been  carried  out  into  the  fjord,  and  lay  there, 
blue  and  green,  rocking  gently  on  the  water.  Later  in  the 
day  it  lost  its  freshness,  dulled  by  the  sand  and  mud 
carried  down  by  the  torrent.  Streams  were  pouring  every- 
where from  the  heights  above,  forming  small  pools  here  and 
there  where  the  water  spread. 

And  gradually  the  earth  rose  up  out  of  its  covering  of 
snow. 

The  landscape  was  dark  and  bare,  relieved  here  and 
there  by  white  specks — the  ptarmigan  had  not  yet  changed 
their  winter  plumage. 

Then  the  green  of  spring  began  to  put  forth,  and  birds 
of  passage  arrived.  The  air  grew  milder,  and  the  song  of 
birds  was  heard;  there  was  a  scent  of  growth  abroad,  a 
promise  of  harvests  to  come. 

Early  blossoms  peeped  out,  braving  the  frosts  with  cheer- 
ful smiles.  Time  went  on,  and  the  light  nights  came, 
when  the  evening  brought  but  a  veil  over  the  day,  that 
was  drawn  aside  again  at  dawn,  when  the  bright  sun  rose, 
passing  from  a  ruddy  glow  to  a  fullness  of  dazzling  rays. 
Butterflies  lived  their  little  lives,  and  sank  to  earth,  to 
pass  through  the  cycle  of  nature  before  they  came  again. 
The  lambs  of  last  year  were  mothers  now  themselves,  wise 
in  the  vicissitudes  of  life  and  saddened  by  experience. 

But  the  horses,  even  the  older  ones,  forgot  for  a  moment 
their  mere  material  needs,  and  galloped  madly  about  under 
the  influence  of  the  joy-filled  air. 

Cattle  let  loose  for  the  first  time  from  their  confinement 


160  GUEST  THE  ONE-J&YED 

behaved  in  most  undignified  fashion;  even  the  astonished 
calves  followed  suit  and  joined  in  the  romp  with  their 
elders.  Good-natured  mothers  pretended  to  let  themselves 
be  outdone  by  their  month-old  offspring,  until  some  young- 
ster grew  overbold,  and  had  to  be  reminded  by  what  was 
fitting.  Great  days,  these,  for  a  young  calf,  a  time  to  play 
at  being  a  grown-up  bull,  and  making  ferocious  charges 
against  all  and  sundry. 

All  the  light-heartedness  of  spring  about  her  brought 
at  times  a  smile  to  Alma's  saddened  face.  But  it  was  a 
smile  of  pity  rather  than  of  pleasure.  All  these  young 
creatures,  this  life  new  to  the  world,  had  not  yet  tasted 
the  bitterness  of  existence  upon  earth. 

So  she  lived  through  the  spring  with  the  winter  of  life 
in  her  heart,  that  nothing  could  melt  away  once  it  had  set 
in.  No  springtide  for  her,  no  budding  and  bloom. 

She  longed  only  for  peace — in  forgetfulness  or  death. 


CHAPTER  VII 

0RLYGUR  A  BORGT  was  heavy  at  heart  this  spring. 
He  marked  the  covert  whispering  abroad,  and 
it  chilled  him.  But  no  one  was  anxious  to  be  the 
first  to  tell  him  of  the  rumours  that  had  spread,  and  he 
remained  in  ignorance  of  their  essential  theme.  Yet  he 
could  not  fail  to  see  that  there  was  something  in  the  air — 
something  that  concerned  himself. 

The  expression  of  men's  faces  had  changed.  0rlygur 
found  himself  regarded  with  curious  glances — sometimes 
a  look  of  wondering  speculation,  at  times  a  look  of  some- 
thing like  scorn.  If  he  came  unexpectedly  upon  a  group, 
they  would  cease  their  talking  suddenly,  or  talk  with  such 
eagerness  of  indifferent  matters  that  it  was  clear  they  had 
changed  the  subject  on  his  arrival.  They  had  been  speaking 
of  him — or  at  any  rate  of  something  he  was  not  to  know  of. 

At  first  he  paid  little  heed  to  it  all.  What  did  he  care 
for  their  gossip?  He  had  always  held  himself  apart  and 
above  all  idle  talk.  Realities,  matters  of  actual  moment, 
were  the  only  things  that  interested  him.  Let  them  wag 
their  tongues  if  they  pleased;  say  what  they  would  of  one 
another,  good  or  ill.  It  was  always  the  same  in  the  end 
— they  answered  to  the  hand  with  the  surest  touch,  not  to 
the  mere  possessor  of  a  gift  of  speech. 

As  days  went  on,  their  glances  became  more  and  more 
ill-disposed  and  evident;  the  crowd  seemed  to  increase  in 
boldness  as  its  numbers  grew.  0rlygur  felt  himself  gradually 
surrounded ;  even  at  Borg  itself  there  was  an  air  of  restraint 
apparent.  His  own  people  no  longer  met  his  gaze  frankly, 
no  longer  laughed  heartily  at  his  jests ;  his  orders  even  were 
no  longer  received  and  obeyed  with  the  same  willing  alacrity 
as  before.  If  any  task  called  for  special  effort,  there  was  no 

161 


162  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

longer  the  same  eager  haste  to  help.  It  seemed  rather  as  if 
he  were  being  left  to  struggle  by  himself,  an  object  of  curi- 
osity as  to  how  he  would  manage  alone.  He  could  see,  too, 
that  he  was  being  watched,  as  if  all  around  him  were  trying 
to  read  his  thoughts,  and  with  no  friendly  eye. 

Day  by  day  it  grew  harder  to  bear.  0rlygur  tried  to 
get  at  what  was  in  their  minds,  insinuating  opportunities 
for  them  to  speak  out,  but  without  avail.  They  could  not 
— or  would  not — perceive  his  invitations  to  tell  him  frankly 
what  was  amiss. 

He  sought  out  his  best  friends  in  the  parish,  those  whom 
he  had  befriended  most.  He  called,  not  as  with  any  evident 
object,  but  casually,  leaving  it  to  them  to  speak  of  what 
they  evidently  knew.  But  all  to  no  purpose.  It  had  not 
been  the  way  of  those  whom  0rlygur  had  helped  to  cringe 
and  fawn  before  him;  they  had  acknowledged  his  assistance 
as  between  man  and  man.  But  now  they  met  him  with 
fluent  insincerity,  plainly  trying  to  conceal  the  true  state  of 
the  case.  Outwardly,  they  were  humble  and  full  of  defer- 
ence and  gratitude;  but  he  could  see  their  hearts  were  ice 
towards  him. 

There  was  hardly  a  soul  in  the  parish  who  was  not  in- 
debted to  him  in  some  way.  But  now  that  he  stood  in  need 
of  a  friendly  hand,  their  selfishness  was  revealed.  Not  one 
had  the  courage  to  speak  out. 

Then  came  the  third  of  May — the  date  when  farm  hands 
and  servants  enter  or  leave  their  service. 

0rlygur  was  out  and  about  betimes,  looking  to  some  lambs 
that  had  just  arrived.  It  was  dinner-time  before  he  came 
back  to  the  house.  As  he  came  up,  he  noticed  that  there 
were  no  men  to  be  seen  outside,  though  some  of  the  ewes 
were  in  birth-throes  and  needing  help.  He  attended  to 
the  most  pressing  cases  himself,  and  then  hurried  up  to 
the  house. 

Here  a  further  surprise  awaited  him.  All  the  hands, 
and  the  girls  belonging  to  the  house,  stood  with  their  boxes 
ready  packed. 

At  the  door  he  met  the  headman,  dressed  in  his  Sunday 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  163 

best  and  carrying  a  box.  The  man  flushed  a  deep  red  at 
sight  of  his  master,  but  tried  to  appear  unconcerned. 

0rlygur  had  come  up  with  the  intention  of  sending  out 
the  first  man  he  found  to  attend  to  the  sheep.  Now,  he 
gave  no  orders,  but  asked  instead: 

"Are  you  leaving,  then?" 

"Ye — es,"  stammered  the  man,  evidently  ill  at  ease. 

"If  you  are  not  satisfied,  why  have  you  not  told  me 
before,  instead  of  going  off  like  this  without  a  word  in 
advance?" 

"You  never  asked  me  to  stay,"  was  the  sullen  reply. 

"You  have  stayed  on  of  your  own  accord  now  for  twenty- 
two  years,  since  I  took  you  in  as  a  child." 

This  was  undeniable.  The  man  murmured  something 
about  having  found  another  place. 

"Where?" 

"With  Jonas  a  Myri." 

"Good.  You  can  tell  him  from  me  that  if  he  should  be 
in  need  of  hay  again,  as  he  was  last  winter,  he  can  come 
to  me  as  he  did  then.  And  now — you  may  go  to  the  devil ! ' ' 

0rlygur  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  indoors.  In  the 
passage  he  met  one  of  the  girls,  dressed  in  her  best. 

"Are  you  going  too?" 

"You  did  not  ask  me  to  stay." 

A  plot,  thought  the  old  man,  and  turned  from  her  with- 
out a  word. 

All  the  farm  hands  were  dressed  and  ready  to  leave, 
gathered  together  in  a  group.  A  silence  fell  on  them  as 
he  approached. 

One  by  one  he  asked  them:  "Are  you  leaving?"  And 
always  the  same  answer:  "You  did  not  ask  me  to  stay." 

0rlygur  found  difficulty  in  restraining  his  feelings.  He 
was  deeply  attached  to  his  people,  most  of  whom  had  been 
in  his  service  for  many  years.  They  had  always  got  on 
well  together;  the  hands  at  Borg  had  better  wages  than 
they  could  have  obtained  elsewhere.  Some  of  them  he  had 
engaged  when  no  one  else  would  take  them,  and  they  would 
have  been  without  support  had  it  not  been  for  his  help. 


164  THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP 

And  now  they  were  deserting  him.  Not  one  of  them  had 
been  man  enough  to  declare  his  intention  beforehand,  and 
give  time  for  finding  help  elsewhere. 

0rlygur  spoke  with  studied  harshness,  fearing  to  betray 
what  he  really  felt. 

"Get  you  gone,  then,  every  man  of  you,  and  the  sooner 
the  better." 

It  struck  him  that  he  had  not  seen  old  Ossa,  who  had 
served  him  for  fifty  years,  and  had  been  like  a  second 
mother  to  his  children.  He  found  her  in  the  kitchen,  pre- 
paring his  meal. 

''Are  you  not  leaving  too?"  he  asked  bitterly. 

"I'm  too  old  to  go  about  the  country  seeking  work," 
said  she.  Her  voice  seemed  richer  and  softer  than  usual 
as  she  spoke. 

"If  it  is  only  that,  I  could  have  lent  you  a  horse," 
returned  0rlygur,  with  a  note  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice. 

"Nay,  I've  no  wish  to  be  leaving  Borg.  'Twill  not  be 
of  my  own  choosing  if  I  should.  And  maybe  I  can  be 
some  use  a  bit  yet.  As  long  as  I've  but  my  keep  and 
needn't  be  a  burden." 

There  was  a  slight  pause. 

"Ossa,  what  is  it?  Why  are  they  leaving  the  place?" 
Orlygur  asked,  with  some  constraint. 

"Master's  the  best  judge  of  that,  I  take  it." 

"But — they  say  it's  because  I  haven't  asked  them  to 
stay  on  from  last  hiring.  You  know  I've  never  asked 
them;  as  long  as  I  thought  they  were  satisfied,  I  took  it 
they  would  stay." 

"Didn't  they  say  about  leaving  before,  then?" 

"You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"Well,  then,  Master  can  surely  stop  them;  they've  no 
right  to  go  if  you  order  them  to  stay." 

"I'm  too  old  to  beg  favours.  And  I've  no  mind  to  call 
in  the  law.  You  won't  tell  me,  then,  what  it's  all  about?" 

"If  you  don't  know,  'twould  not  help  you  to  be  told." 

"Well,  well,  I'll  not  try  to  make  you  speak  against 
your  will.  But  I  thank  you  for  staying  on." 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  165 

"I'll  have  your  dinner  ready  directly.  You'll  need  it 
this  day." 

"Never  mind  the  dinner.  Put  on  a  shawl  and  come  and 
give  me  a  hand  with  the  sheep.  They  are  lambing  all  over 
the  place,  and  none  to  help  them." 

And  0rlygur  strode  out. 

A  lamb  was  bleating  pitifully  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
He  hurried  over  to  the  spot,  and  found  the  headman  already 
there.  The  man  looked  up  as  he  approached.  0rlygur 
strode  forward,  his  face  white. 

"You  are  no  longer  in  my  service,"  he  said.  "And  I 
do  not  want  your  help."  And  with  a  blow  he  struck  the 
fellow  to  the  ground,  and  went  on,  paying  no  further  heed 
to  him. 

0rlygur  a  Borg  was  left  with  none  to  help  him  save  old 
Ossa. 

The  sheep  alone  were  more  than  he  could  manage;  hun- 
dreds of  them,  and  in  the  height  of  the  lambing  season. 
Scores  of  the  young  lambs  perished  daily,  for  lack  of  care. 
0rlygur  and  Ossa  worked  all  day  and  far  into  the  night, 
doing  all  they  could,  but  despite  their  efforts,  many  of  the 
ewes  died  in  giving  birth,  or  strayed  and  were  drowned  or 
bogged;  many  of  the  lambs  starved  within  reach  of  the 
udders  they  could  not  find.  And  it  was  impossible  to  milk 
the  burdened  beasts;  many  were  soon  suffering  from  lack 
of  relief. 

There  were  the  cows  to  be  seen  to  as  well;  0rlygur  and 
Ossa  were  so  exhausted  when  at  last  they  ceased  work  for  the 
night  that  neither  could  do  more  than  sink  down  in  a  chair 
for  a  few  hours'  rest.  They  spoke  only  briefly,  of  neces- 
sary things,  and  ate  their  food  on  the  way  to  and  from 
their  work. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  0rlygur  asked  of  those  he  met 
at  church  if  they  knew  of  any  hands  to  be  had. 

It  seemed  that  there  were  none  available  anywhere. 

And  now  he  felt  that  they  were  rejoicing  inwardly  at 
his  misfortunes.  All  were  against  him,  he  felt  certain, 


166  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

but  their  opposition  was  so  veiled  that  there  was  nothing 
he  could  take  hold  of  or  challenge. 

Patience  was  the  only  thing.     0rlygur  waited. 

It  could  not  be  long,  he  felt,  before  something  leaked 
out  as  to  what  lay  at  the  root  of  it  all.  Some  accidental 
hint,  a  word  let  drop,  might  give  him  a  chance  to  take  the 
matter  up.  And  if  he  could  but  find  out  who  was  the 
leader  responsible  for  it  all,  it  should  go  hard  with  him. 

He  suspected  Ketill,  but  could  not  understand  how  he 
could  have  such  power  in  the  parish  already  .as  to  bring 
about  such  a  change  in  the  general  attitude  of  the  people. 

As  to  his  own  practical  difficulties — he  might  perhaps 
get  hands  from  farther  off,  but  he  could  not  be  away  from 
the  place  himself,  and  there  was  no  one  he  could  send. 
Nothing  for  it,  then,  but  to  wait  patiently  for  Ormarr's 
return. 

0rlygur  shook  his  head  sadly  as  he  realized  his  helpless- 
ness. Truly,  he  was  getting  old. 

The  vessel  was  nearly  due  now. 

0rlygur  kept  a  close  watch  on  the  fjord,  and  held  three 
horses  in  readiness  for  the  moment  when  the  ship  rounded 
the  point. 

If  only  it  would  come!  He  shook  his  head;  he  had  a 
feeling  that  there  was  but  a  little  time  left  him  now  to  live. 

And  he  dreaded  lest  perhaps  the  ship  should  not  come, 
or  something  have  prevented  Ormarr  from  making  the 
voyage.  He  spoke  to  old  Ossa  about  the  weather;  no, 
surely  it  could  not  send  a  fine  vessel  to  the  bottom. 

0rlygur's  hands  trembled  incessantly;  he  was  visibly 
aged,  and  his  voice  quavered  when  he  spoke  of  his  own 
affairs. 

Old  Ossa  was  deeply  concerned,  but  strove  to  hide  her 
sympathy;  0rlygur  was  not  pleased  to  find  himself  looked 
on  as  a  helpless  creature,  and  was  apt  to  turn  on  her 
impatiently  when  he  suspected  her  of  overmuch  anxiety 
on  his  behalf.  He  would  not  be  looked  after  like  a  child. 
If  she  ventured  to  dry  his  socks  at  the  fire,  instead  of 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  167 

hanging  them  to  air  in  the  ordinary  way,  he  would  keep 
his  wet  ones  on.  And  when  she  tried  to  substitute  new 
mittens  for  his  old  and  tattered  ones,  he  gave  up  wearing 
mittens  at  all. 

"Getting  old  I  may  be,"  he  grumbled,  "but  I'm  not 
an  old  woman  yet." 

Then  at  last  one  day  the  ship  hove  in  sight  round  the 
point. 

0rlygur  hurried  about,  active  as  a  boy,  saddled  his 
horses,  forgot  all  his  troubles,  and  astonished  old  Ossa  by 
humming,  all  unconsciously,  a  fragment  of  a  song,  that  he 
kept  repeating  over  and  over  again. 

And  as  soon  as  he  was  ready,  off  he  rode  to  fetch  his 
son  home. 

Sera  Ketill  had  likewise  been  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the 
vessel  with  impatience,  and  had  horses  ready. 

As  soon  'as  he  saw  it  had  arrived,  he  hurried  to  his  wife. 

"Ormarr  and  his  wife  have  arrived — the  ship  is  just 
coming  in.  Get  ready  as  quickly  as  you  can.  We  must 
go  down  to -the  quay  and  bid  them  welcome." 

Alma  looked  at  him  in  surprise ;  something  in  his  manner 
filled  her  with  vague  anxiety. 

She  put  on  her  riding  things — her  habit  was  sadly  too 
big  for  her  now,  but,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter?  And 
Ketill  and  his  wife  set  off  for  the  trading  station,  reaching 
there  just  after  0rlygur  himself. 

Ormarr  and  Runa  had  already  come  ashore,  and  the 
party  were  about  to  set  off  for  Borg  when  Ketill  and  Alma 
arrived  on  the  scene.  All  three  tried  to  conceal  their 
astonishment:  they  had  not  expected  Ketill. 

He  greeted  them  with  outward  calm,  and  they  tried,  for 
Alma's  sake,  to  appear  as  if  there  were  nothing  but  good- 
will between  them.  But  all  three  found  it  difficult  to  meet 
his  glance.  And  Ketill  smiled,  as  if  with  pleasure  at  the 
meeting,  but  in  reality  with  malicious  satisfaction  at  the 
evident  impression  his  presence  made.  It  was  a  tribute  to 
his  power.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  get  rid  of  him  now. 


168  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

0rlygur  was  trembling,  and  had  the  greatest  difficulty 
in  controlling  himself.  Trouble  was  imminent  now;  of  that 
he  was  certain.  And  he  puzzled  his  brain  to  find  the  reason 
of  Ketill 's  appearance  there — what  had  he  to  gain  by  it? 

Ormarr  took  the  child,  and  helped  his  wife  into  the  sad- 
dle. He  was  very  pale,  and  glanced  covertly  at  Runa. 

Alma  came  up  to  him. 

"It  is  long  since  we  met,"  she  said.  And,  noticing  his 
pallor,  she  asked  anxiously  if  he  were  "unwell." 

"It  is  nothing — I  felt  a  little  strange  for  the  moment," 
he  said. 

Ormarr,  on  his  part,  noted  how  changed  Alma  was,  how 
ill  and  distressed.  He  was  about  to  question  her,  but 
checked  himself;  best  not,  perhaps,  to  ask  anything  at  all 
just  now. 

Alma  read  his  intention,  and  understood  that  he  wished 
to  spare  her.  She  felt  she  must  hide  the  real  cause,  and 
gave  only  the  more  direct  reason  for  her  evident  ill-health. 

"I  too  have  had  a  child  since  we  last  met,"  she  said; 
and  added  after  a  pause,  "and  lost  it." 

Tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  And  just  at  that  moment  Ketill 
came  up. 

"What — crying?"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  round  her. 
Alma  shivered  at  his  touch. 

Ketill  lifted  the  coverings  from  the  child's  face  and  looked 
at  it.  "So  this  is  the  little  heir,"  he  said  jestingly.  "We 
must  have  a  look." 

Alma  also  glanced  at  the  child. 

"Congratulations,  Runa,"  said  Alma,  grasping  her  sister- 
in-law's  hand.  "And  Ormarr" — turning  to  him — "and 
you  too,  dear  father-in-law.  'Tis  a  bonny  child  they  have 
brought  you  home.  May  it  bring  luck  to  the  house ! ' ' 

"Ay,  we  need  something  to  bring  luck  to  the  house,"  said 
0rlygur  bitterly. 

Alma  looked  at  him,  surprised  at  his  tone. 

"Oh — you  mean  you  still  can't  get  hands  for  the  farm 
work?" 

0rlygur  saw  that  she  asked  in  all  innocence. 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  Ib9 

"No,  my  dear,"  he  answered.  "And  I  am  getting  old. 
When  the  little  lad  here  has  grown  a  bit,  I  may  do  as  a 
playmate  for  him,  but  little  more.  But  we  ought  to  be 
getting  home."  j; 

All  five  rode  off  together.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  until 
they  reached  the  cross-road  where  Ketill  and  his  wife 
turned  off  to  take  the  short  path  to  Hof . 

The  three  continued  on  their  way  in  silence. 

0rlygur  was  glad  that  the  meeting  had  been  got  over; 
sooner  or  later  Runa  would  have  had  to  meet  Ketill,  and  it 
was  well  that  it  was  done.  He  rode  up  beside  her. 

"You  managed  splendidly,"  he  said.  "I  have  never  seen 
a  woman  so  brave  and  strong." 

Buna  made  no  answer,  but  0rlygur  read  her  silence  as 
expressing  thanks. 

Some  way  farther  on  she  rode  up  to  him  again ;  he  under- 
stood that  she  had  something  particular  to  say.  She  rode 
at  his  side  for  a  little  distance  without  speaking,  then, 
leaning  towards  him,  she  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"The  past  is  forgotten." 

And  they  rode  on  in  silence.  But,  despite  her  words, 
0rlygur  was  not  quite  at  his  ease. 

Later,  when  they  arrived  at  Borg,  and  he  saw  how  Ormarr 
helped  his  wife  tenderly  from  her  horse,  and  kissed  her, 
the  tears  rose  to  his  eyes,  and  he  thanked  God  that  these 
two,  united  in  misfortune,  seemed  now,  at  least,  to  be  living 
happily  together  in  love. 

Old  Ossa  came  out  to  meet  them,  and  0rlygur  turned 
to  his  son. 

"The  only  one  that  is  left,"  he  said,  pointing  to  Ossa. 
"There  are  no  more  servants  at  Borg." 

"What  do  you  mean?"   queried   Ormarr. 

"It  means  that  I  have  become  such  a  hard  master  in  my 
old  age  that  I  can  neither  keep  old  servants  in  my  house 
nor  get  new  to  come." 

Later  on  he  told  Ormarr  how  the  servants  and  farm 
hands  had  left  with  one  accord,  and  how  those  he  had  be- 
friended among  his  neighbours  round  had  turned  from  him 


170  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

in  his  need.  He  said  nothing,  however,  of  his  suspicions 
with  regard  to  Ketill. 

Ormarr  thought  for  a  moment,  then  turned  to  his  father 
suddenly. 

"There  must  be  something  behind  all  this,"  he  said. 

0rlygur  nodded;  he  too  was  clear  as  to  that,  but  what 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  he  could  not  say. 

Ormarr  seemed  anxious  to  pass  over  the  matter  lightly 
for  the  present.  "We  must  be  able  to  get  hands  from 
somewhere,"  he  said  easily.  "And  if  our  neighbours  can 
do  without  us,  I  dare  say  we  can  manage  without  them." 

63  H  W  !•]  *  •  •• 

Sera  Ketill  and  his  wife  rode  on  for  some  distance  with- 
out speaking.  Alma  had  an  idea  that  Ketill  wished  to  con- 
fide in  her  about  something,  but  was  at  a  loss  how  to  begin. 

She  remembered  how  she  had  ridden  that  way  with  her 
husband  once  before:  she  had  wept  then,  because  he  left 
her  to  ride  alone.  Now,  the  mere  idea  that  he  wished  to 
speak  to  her  made  her  shudder. 

They  came  to  the  ford,  and  Ketill  drew  up  close  beside 
his  wife,  lest  she  should  fall  dizzy  in  crossing.  He  told 
her  to  close  her  eyes  and  hold  on  firmly,  which  she  did. 
They  crossed  without  difficulty.  Alma  could  hear  that  the 
water  no  longer  plashed  about  the  horses'  feet.  But  she 
still  kept  her  eyes  closed. 

She  could  feel  that  her  husband  was  still  at  her  side. 
At  length  he  spoke.  His  voice  was  unsteady,  as  if  he 
found  it  hard  to  speak  at  all. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  something,"  he  said. 

Alma  opened  her  eyes  and  glanced  at  him  timidly. 
But  Ketill  was  looking  fixedly  at  his  horse 's  mane  as  he  went 
on: 

"It  is  an  unpleasant  matter,  and  I'm  afraid  it  will  distress 
you  somewhat.  But  it  must  be  faced.  And  when  the  time 
comes  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  I  have  done  rightly." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  on: 

"You  saw  the  child?" 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  171 

He  waited,  as  if  for  an  answer,  but  Alma  made  no  reply. 

"Did  it  not  strike  you  as  being  extremely  well-developed 
for  a  child  newly  born?  It  is  supposed  to  have  been  born 
on  the  way  up." 

Alma  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Do  you  mean  that  the  child  is  not  theirs?" 

"The  child  is  Runa's.  But  Ormarr  is  not  the  father," 
Ketill  replied.  "It  was  born  in  March.  And  Ormarr  was 
not  in  Iceland  the  previous  spring." 

Alma  felt  suddenly  dizzy;  she  felt  as  if  she  must  burst 
into  tears,  but  sat  still,  outwardly  calm.  Something  told  her 
that  though  there  might  be  something  of  truth  in  this,  there 
was  yet  falsehood  and  mischief  behind. 

Bitter  words  rose  to  her  lips;  it  was  as  if  her  husband 
were  making  her  an  accomplice  in  a  deed  worthy  of  Judas. 
But  she  dared  not  give  vent  to  her  feelings,  and  only  said : 

"Well,  and  if  so,  it  is  no  concern  of  ours." 

"It  concerns  us — as  being  of  the  family — and  it  concerns 
me,  as  a  priest." 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do,  then?" 

"You  have  not  heard  all  as  yet.  You  do  not  know  what 
people  are  saying  throughout  the  parish — that  the  father 
of  the  child  is — 0,rlygur  himself!" 

"It  is  a  lie!" 

Alma  was  quivering  with  rage;  she  had  never  been  so 
near  to  losing  her  self-control. 

"I  do  not  say  it  is  true.  Until  it  is  proved,  we  must 
hope  for  the  best.  But  you  will  no  doubt  agree  with  me 
that  the  matter  calls  for  the  strictest  investigation.  Ormarr 
and  his  father  have  treated  the  affair  with  great  se- 
crecy— that  looks  bad,  to  begin  with.  Did  you  not  no- 
tice last  year  how  Runa  was  kept  out  of  the  way  when 
we  were  there?  And  can't  you  see  now  why  it  was? 
Has  it  never  struck  you  that  her  marriage  was  arranged 
with  extraordinary  haste?  The  whole  thing  was  settled 
and  done  in  a  couple  of  days.  It  is  a  very  awkward 
business  indeed  for  father;  the  entire  parish  is  against 


172  GUEST  THE  ONE-J^YED 

him.  All  his  workpeople  left  the  place  this  spring,  and 
he  has  been  there  all  alone,  with  but  one  old  woman,  until 
now. ' ' 

"Why  did  they  leave  him?" 

"Probably  because  they  knew  what  was  said  about 
him,  and  believed  it  true.  Very  likely  they  knew  of  some 
little  incident  that  proved  it.  And  after  that,  of  course, 
they  would  not  wish  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  him. ' ' 

Alma  was  at  a  loss  what  to  reply.  She  had  a  keen  desire 
to  defend  0rlygur,  for  she  fully  believed  he  was  innocent. 
But  her  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  and  the  one  thing  uppermost 
at  the  moment  was  an  intense  hatred  of  her  husband. 
But  she  would  not  give  it  rein.  She  was  helpless,  and 
suffering  bitterly. 

"What  do  you  think  yourself?"  she  asked  at  last,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"I  do  not  allow  myself  to  think.  But  I  have  determined 
to  have  the  matter  cleared  up.  That  is  all." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SUNDAY  came.  A  glorious  spring  day  with  a  bright 
blue  cloudless  sky  and  the  air  a-quiver  with  heat; 
a  day  of  smiles  without  a  shadow,  breathing  peace  to 
all  mankind. 

Coming  out  into  the  sunshine  on  such  a  day,  free  from 
the  cares  and  toil  of  everyday  life,  the  heart  seemed  filled 
with  a  natural  desire  to  give  thanks  and  praise  to  God  for 
the  blessing  of  life. 

But  on  this  Sunday,  there  were  few  in  all  Hofsfjordur 
whose  minds  were  bent  on  praising  the  Lord.  Folk  hastened 
to  the  service,  but  their  thoughts  were  not  with  God.  This 
day,  the  first  Sunday  after  Ormarr  0rlygsson's  homecom- 
ing, was  a  day  of  mark;  something,  all  knew,  was  about  to 
happen.  And  all  repaired  to  the  church  to  see.  Even 
tiny  children  were  brought  thither;  no  one  was  willing  to 
stay  at  home  minding  children  today. 

Sera  Ketill  was  up  and  about  before  any  of  his  people  at 
Hof.  He  moved  about  restlessly  outside  the  house,  avoid- 
ing the  grass,  which  was  still  thickly  drenched  with  dew. 

Again  and  again  he  glanced  over  in  the  direction  of  Borg. 
A  thin  bluish  column  of  smoke  could  be  seen  rising  straight 
up  above  the  chimneys  of  his  old  home.  And  involuntarily 
he  found  in  it  something  like  a  symbol  of  peace.  There  was 
something  of  a  covenant  in  the  ray  of  smoke  that  rose  as  it 
were  from  some  sacrifice  acceptable  to  the  Lord. 

How  was  this  day  to  end?  Sera  Ketill  asked  himself 
the  question,  and  wondered  who  would  be  coming  to  church 
from  Borg  that  day. 

0/rlygur  and  Ormarr  moved  about  in  silence,  each  bent 
upon  his  own  tasks.  There  was  much  to  be  done;  they 
had  made  no  attempt  as  yet  to  secure  new  hands.  It  had 
been  agreed  that  0rlygur  should  go  to  church,  the  others 

173 


174  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

remaining  at  home.  Had  it  not  been  for  his  duties  there, 
0rlygur  himself  would  rather  have  stayed  away. 

Early  that  morning  he  had  fetched  in  Sleipnir,  his 
saddle-horse,  from  the  fields,  and  stabled  it  without  fodder 
to  be  ready  for  the  road.  He  let  another  animal  into  the 
box  to  keep  it  company,  and  the  pair  remained  there  during 
the  morning,  relieving  the  tedium  of  their  confinement  by 
licking  each  other. 

At  last  it  was  time  to  start.  0,rlygur  had  saddled  his 
horse,  but  delayed  moving  off,  finding  this  thing  and  that 
to  attend  to,  as  if  loth  to  leave  the  place.  Now  and 
again  he  stopped  still,  looking  out  over  the  country  round; 
from  all  quarters  he  could  see  his  fellow-parishioners 
come  riding;  all  moving  towards  Hof  as  the  centre  of 
attraction.  He  noticed,  too,  that  the  enclosure  round  the 
vicarage  was  already  dark  with  the  crowd  of  those  who 
had  come  early. 

Finally,  realizing  that  he  had  no  time  to  spare  if  he  wished 
to  arrive  in  time,  he  stepped  off  resolutely.  Then  he  turned 
and  stopped. 

Ormarr  was  in  the  courtyard,  teaching  a  new-born  lamb 
to  suck.  He  had  been  an  adept  at  the  work  in  his  younger 
days,  but  had  forgotten  his  deftness  now,  and  was  fumbling 
awkwardly. 

0£lygur  went  straight  up  to  him. 

"I  think  you  had  better  come  with  me,  after  all,"  he  said. 
"I  feel — I  feel  lonely  today,  Ormarr.  Never  mind  the 
lamb,  it  will  manage  till  we  come  back." 

Ormarr  looked  up.  There  was  something  strange  about 
his  father's  manner  today,  something  he  had  not  noticed 
before.  He  rose  up  without  a  word,  saddled  a  horse,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  father  and  son  set  out. 

Where  the  road  was  good,  they  gave  their  horses  rein. 
But  Ormarr  noticed  that,  despite  the  pace,  his  father  was 
constantly  turning  to  look  back  at  Borg.  A  new  fancy 
of  his,  he  thought. 

There  was  a  stretch  of  difficult  going  just  ahead ;  on  reach- 
ing it,  they  slackened  speed,  and  rode  on  side  by  side  at 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  175 

a   walk.     Suddenly,   and  without   preamble,    0rlygur   said: 

"I  had  a  strange  dream  last  night.  Curiously  distinct 
it  was  too.  I  was  standing  on  the  hill  outside" — he 
nodded  towards  Borg — ' '  and  a  funeral  came  along  the  road — 
this  very  way — towards  the  house.  A  great  procession, 
the  biggest  I  had  even  seen.  And  the  strange  thing  about 
it  was  that  it  was  coming  from  the  church  towards  Borg — 
instead  of  the  opposite  way." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  continued: 

"And  that  was  not  all.  I  was  quite  sure  that  it  was 
my  own  corpse  the  people  were  following.  And  yet  I  stood 
there  on  the  hill  myself,  looking  on.  If  it  means  anything  at 
all,  I  suppose  it  should  be  taken  by  contraries — to  say  that 
I  am  to  be  buried  alone,  without  a  soul  to  follow  me  to  the 
grave." 

They  reached  the  level  road  as  he  ceased  speaking,  and 
0rlygur  at  once  galloped  on  ahead;  Ormarr  did  not  over- 
take him  till  they  had  reached  the  vicarage.  Neither  spoke. 

There  was  a  numerous  attendance  of  people.  But  it  was 
noticeable  that  they  did  not  talk  together,  but  busied  them- 
selves tidying  up  after  the  ride  with  nervous  care.  There 
was  none  of  the  customary  laughter  and  easy  conversation, 
all  seemed  curiously  silent.  Neighbours  did  not  move  to 
greet  one  another  and  shake  hands;  and  none  entered  the 
church.  All  waited,  a  silent  crowd,  with  their  minds  at  the 
highest  pitch  of  sinister  anticipation. 

For  the  second  time  the  church  bell  called  to  the  worship- 
pers to  enter.  But  no  one  moved. 

At  sight  of  0rlygur  and  his  son  riding  up,  the  crowd  re- 
mained impassive,  merely  staring  at  the  new  arrivals  as 
they  approached.  But  they  watched  them  closely,  with 
occasional  side-glances  at  others,  who  appeared  to  be  watch- 
ing likewise. 

As  0rlygur  rode  up,  he  divined  at  once  that  no  one  had 
as  yet  entered  the  church;  that  all  were  waiting  for  himself 
and  his  son.  They  were  watching  them,  too.  One  glance 
showed  him  the  situation,  and  his  anger  rose  suddenly. 
Usually,  he  dismounted  outside  the  fence.  But  now,  he 


176  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

galloped  straight  across  the  enclosure,  up  to  the  wall  of  the 
churchyard,  Ormarr  following  at  his  heels.  The  crowd  had 
to  give  way  hastily  to  avoid  being  trampled  down.  Still 
there  was  no  murmur,  only  the  same  watching  glances  from 
all.  And  all  could  see  that  the  master  of  Borg  was  in  no 
gentle  mood  today. 

Suddenly  the  gathering  moved  with  one  accord  towards 
the  church  and  poured  in.  The  bell  called  for  the  third 
time — a  strange,  solitary  sound  in  the  quiet  air. 

0rlygur  and  Ormarr  secured  their  horses  and  went 
straight  into  the  church.  They  were  the  last  to  enter,  save 
for  old  Kata,  who  hobbled  along,  waving  her  coloured  ker- 
chief in  the  air  to  ward  off  invisible  ghosts  and  evil  things. 

0rlygur  read  the  opening  prayer,  and  the  service  pro- 
ceeded as  usual,  until  Sera  Ketill  ascended  into  the  pulpit. 

0rlygur  was  in  his  usual  seat  in  the  choir.  Alma  sat  at 
his  side.  Ormarr  had  found  a  place  in  the  nave,  just  in 
front  of  the  organ. 

When  Sera  Ketill  appeared  in  the  pulpit,  a  dead  silence 
filled  the  church,  as  if  all  had  ceased  to  breathe.  For  a 
moment  the  priest  stood  silent,  with  a  thoughtful  mien. 
Then  he  spoke — a  little  unsteadily  at  first,  and  fumbling  with 
his  fingers  at  the  notes  before  him.  But  soon  he  gained 
power,  and  spoke  out  strongly  and  in  a  clear,  resonant  voice. 
His  hands  clutched  the  edge  of  the  pulpit  with  such  force 
that  the  knuckles  showed  white. 

" Brethren  in  Christ,"  he  began,  "before  proceeding  to 
interpret  the  text  for  today,  I  have  a  painful  duty  to  per- 
form— a  painful  duty  indeed.  Let  me  therefore  fortify  .my- 
self by  supplication.  I  ask  you  all  to  say  with  me  the  Lord's 
Prayer : 

"Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven,  Hallowed  be  Thy 
Name.  Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth, 
as  it  is  in  heaven.  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread.  And 
forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass 
against  us.  And  lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver 
us  from  evil :  For  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  the  power,  and  the 
glory,  for  ever  and  ever.  Amen." 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  177 

Sera  Ketill  wiped  his  brow. 

"Yes:  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  the  power,  and  the  glory. 
And  we  will  serve  Thee  only.  Grant  us  strength  that  no 
earthly  ties  may  keep  us  from  Thee  and  Thy  way.  That 
our  duty  to  Thee  may  ever  be  set  before  all  else;  that  we 
may  willingly  take  up  our  cross  and  bear  it  in  patience  as 
did  Thy  well-beloved  Son." 

Sera  Ketill  paused  a  moment,  and  then  continued : 

"Brethren  in  Christ,  we  all  know  how  the  Son  of  God 
cleansed  the  Temple  at  Jerusalem.  Today  a  like  duty  is 
laid  upon  us,  the  meanest  of  His  servants.  To  the  Almighty, 
this  poor  house  of  prayer  is  no  less  sacred  than  the  great 
Temple;  it  is  the  House  of  the  Lord,  and  no  evil  must  be 
suffered  to  dwell  therein.  And  those  who  have  given  offence 
to  God  cannot  be  suffered  to  enter  His  House  until  they 
have  begged  of  Him  forgiveness  for  their  sins,  kneeling  be- 
fore him  with  a  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

"There  is  here  in  our  midst  an  old  man  who  is  a  cause  of 
offence  among  this  congregation,  together  with  his  son,  the 
sharer  of  his  sin. 

"The  son  took  to  wife  a  woman  out  of  his  father's  house. 
And  the  woman  has  given  birth  to  a  child  that  cannot  be 
the  offspring  of  her  husband.  Whose,  then,  is  the  child? 
It  is  said  that  the  old  man  is  the  father.  I  have  seen  the 
child,  and  I  cannot  but  believe  that  it  must  have  been  born 
earlier  than  is  said.  Indeed,  I  am  certain  of  this.  And  my 
wife  has  seen  the  child,  and  can  testify  to  the  same.  The 
woman,  then,  has  borne  a  child  in  sin.  But  who  is  the  father  ? 

"Until  this  matter  is  made  clear,  until  the  parentage  of 
this  child  is  established  according  to  the  laws  of  the  Church, 
we  cannot  tolerate  among  us  those  from  whom  this  offence 
is  come.  "We  cannot  suffer  them  to  worship  God  under  the 
same  roof. 

"And  now,  0rlygur  a  Borg,  and  you,  Ormarr  0rlygsson, 
I  call  on  you,  in  the  name  of  God,  to  leave  this  holy  place. 
Amen." 

Alma  leaned  over  towards  0rlygur  and  grasped  his  arm. 
From  the  commencement  of  her  husband's  speech  she  had 


178  GtJEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

divined  his  intention,  and  now  in  a  moment  she  realized 
what  had  been  vague  to  her  before. 

0rlygur  sat  motionless  throughout  his  son's  denunciation, 
but  his  brow  was  firmly  knit,  and  a  strange  light  shone  in 
his  eyes. 

As  Ketill  finished,  Ormarr  rose  to  leave  the  church. 
Passing  by  the  pulpit,  he  looked  straight  at  his  brother; 
both  men  were  deadly  pale.  Ormarr  stood  still  for  a 
moment,  and  said: 

"You  are  playing  a  dangerous  game,  brother  Ketill." 
Then  he  passed  on. 

But  now  0rlygur  rose  to  his  feet,  Alma  still  clinging  to 
his  arm,  and  called  out  in  a  loud,  firm  voice : 

"Ormarr!" 

Ormarr  stopped,  looked  back,  and  strode  to  his  father's 
side. 

Alma  still  held  the  old  man's  arm.  She  clung  to  him, 
and  begged  imploringly:  "Do  not  leave  me  here;  take  me 
back  with  you  to  Borg.  Let  me  come  with  you  and  stay 
with  you  there. ' ' 

0rlygur  patted  her  trembling  hands,  and  said  gently; 
"Ormarr  will  look  after  you,  my  dear."  And  to  Ormarr 
he  said:  "Go  with  her  home,  and  protect  her,  whatever  hap- 
pens. Do  not  let  her  leave  Borg  unless  by  her  own  desire. 
Be  kind  to  her,  my  son.  And  now  go,  both  of  you.  I  will 
come  presently." 

But  Alma  held  Ormarr  back,  and  they  did  not  leave  the 
church. 

0rlygur  had  followed  them  down  the  aisle  toward  the 
door.  Then  he  turned  back,  not  noticing  that  they  remained 
inside  the  church.  When  he  had  left  them,  old  Kata  emerged 
from  her  corner,  and  going  up  to  Ormarr,  asked:  "May  I 
come  with  you  to  Borg  and  stay?" 

Alma  caught  her  hand,  and  Ormarr  nodded  in  consent. 
Alma  was  trembling  pitifully ;  Ormarr  and  Kata  had  to  sup- 
port her. 

0rlygur  a  Borg  walked  back  toward  the  pulpit,  stopped  in 
front  of  it,  and  said: 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  179 

"This  is  the  House  of  God.  But  it  seems  that  the  Evil 
One  has  usurped  His  place.  I  am  to  be  driven  out  from  it 
— well  and  good.  But  before  I  go,  let  me  tell  what  all  these 
righteous  folk  are  full  of  zeal  to  know." 

And  pointing  to  the  priest  in  the  pulpit,  he  went  on: 

"There  is  the  father  of  the  child." 

When  Alma  heard  the  old  man's  words,  it  was  as  if  the 
inward  tension  of  the  past  months  had  suddenly  given  way. 
Her  features  relaxed,  she  ceased  to  tremble,  and  her  eyes 
lost  their  fire.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  sinking  into  a  sea  of 
mist.  And  then  to  nothingness. 

The  light  of  her  mind  was  suddenly  extinguished,  her  soul 
had  taken  flight,  back  to  the  eternity  whence  it  had  come. 
Only  her  body  remained,  panting,  unharmed,  a  living  monu- 
ment to  that  which  had  gone,  an  empty  dwelling,  that  has 
not  yet  crumbled,  though  the  last  living  thing  it  sheltered, 
the  last  thought,  is  gone. 

A  wave  of  astonishment  swept  through  the  congregation 
at  0rlygur's  revelation.  Then  a  moment  after  all  was  quiet 
once  more. 

Sera  Ketill  was  still  in  the  pulpit,  pale  as  a  corpse.  He 
had  reckoned  with  every  possibility  save  only  this;  no  form 
of  defence,  no  counter-attack,  but  he  would  have  had  his 
answer  ready.  But  this.  ...  It  was  not  like  his  father. 

It  was  all  over  now.  The  words  that  meant  his  destruc- 
tion were  spoken.  And  yet  he  was  still  alive.  The  earth 
had  not  swallowed  him  up,  no  fire  had  descended  from  heaven 
to  consume  him.  He  was  unhurt;  ruined  beyond  help,  yet 
he  stood  there  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  It  seemed  some- 
how ridiculous. 

^rlygur  faced  his  son,  speaking  directly  to  him: 

"How  could  you  do  this  thing?  And  how  could  ever  God 
permit  it  ?  How  could  He  tolerate  a  hypocrite  in  His  House  ? 
My  son,  I  do  not  hate  you,  and  yet  I  say :  Be  thou  accursed 
until  repentance  and  charity  have  filled  your  soul.  Ay,  I 
curse  my  son,  not  because  I  hate  him,  but  because  of  my 
love  for  him.  Accursed — be  accursed  until  our  Heavenly 
Father  shall  have  let  the  glory  of  His  goodness  penetrate  into 


180  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

your  soul,  and  the  darkness  of  the  Evil  One  give  place  to 
light.  May  your  soul  never  rest,  and  may  it  never  leave  its 
earthly  dwelling,  until  Almighty  God  has  given  the  sign  of 
His  forgiveness!" 

The  congregation  sat  in  awed  silence  while  0rlygur  was 
speaking.  When  the  old  man  had  finished,  he  turned  to  leave 
the  church.  But  he  tottered,  and  would  have  fallen  had  he 
not  grasped  at  the  side  of  a  seat  for  support. 

Ormarr  hurried  to  his  side,  leaving  Kata  to  look  after 
Alma.  0rlygur  sank  helpless  into  his  son's  arms.  The  con- 
gregation looked  on  as  if  spellbound ;  no  one  moved. 

The  old  man  put  his  hand  to  his  heart  and  murmured; 

' '  I  am  dying.  Heavenly  Father,  into  thy  hands  I  commend 
my  spirit." 

Ormarr  laid  him  down  on  the  floor  of  the  church,  and  stood 
bending  over  him,  at  a  loss  what  next  to  do.  The  old  man 
seemed  trying  to  speak.  Ormarr  put  his  ear  close  to  his 
father's  mouth,  and  caught  the  words: 

".  .  .  home  ...  to  Borg." 

They  were  the  last  words  0r]ygur  a  Borg  ever  uttered. 

Ormarr  felt  his  father's  heart  and  pulse — it  was  all  over. 
Lifting  the  body  tenderly  in  his  arms,  he  carried  it  out  of  the 
church. 

Old  Kata,  standing  by  the  entrance,  crossed  herself  and 
muttered  something  about  the  ways  of  the  Lord.  .  .  .  Then 
to  herself  she  added: 

"So  it  was  his  death  the  ravens  came  to  tell!" 

And  Kata  took  the  unconscious  Alma  by  the  hand  and 
followed  after  Ormarr  and  his  burden. 

"When  they  had  left,  an  old  peasant  rose  and  walked  out 
of  the  church.  Then  the  congregation  followed,  walking  with 
downcast  eyes,  a  few  only  casting  furtive  glances  in  the 
direction  of  the  pulpit,  where  Sera  Ketill  stood. 

Ormarr  carried  his  father  across  the  churchyard  to  the 
horses,  Kata  and  Alma  following  close  behind.  When  he 
saw  his  sister-in-law's  condition,  he  shivered. 

Kata  was  watching  him.  "Ay,"  she  said,  "her  poor 
troubled  soul's  found  rest  at  last.  And  we  should  thank  the 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOF  181 

Lord  that  He  took  her  reason.  Let  me  come  and  nurse  her 
— she'll  need  no  other  help  as  long  as  I  live." 

Ormarr  was  puzzled  to  think  how  he  should  get  his  father's 
body  and  the  two  women  home,  with  but  two  horses  for  the 
journey.  Sleipnir  could  easily  carry  him  and  his  father's 
body.  With  a  side-saddle,  Alma  could  have  mounted  the 
second  horse,  Kata  leading  it.  As  it  was,  the  women  would 
'have  to  walk,  and  he  must  ride  at  a  foot-pace  the  whole 
way.  There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done  that  he  could 
see. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  telling  Kata  his  plan  when  he 
perceived  the  congregation  crowding  round.  The  old  peas- 
ant who  had  first  left  the  church  came  up  to  him,  and  said: 

"You  will  let  us  carry  the  old  chief  home  to  Borg?" 

Ormarr  turned  on  him  furiously. 

"You  have  killed  my  father  among  you;  not  one  of  you 
shall  touch  his  body." 

But  the  old  peasant  would  not  give  way.  His  voice  was 
thick  with  emotion  as  he  went  on: 

"We  have  done  a  great  injustice  to  your  father.  You 
will  not  forbid  us  now  to  make  amends  as  far  as  we  can. 
Had  he  lived,  we  should  have  come  to  him,  to  ask  his  forgive- 
ness. And  for  all  that  you  are  his  son,  you  know  him  little 
if  you  think  he  would  have  sent  us  away  unheard.  He  was 
too  generous  for  that." 

Ormarr  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  the  man's  eyes.  He 
glanced  round  the  circle,  and  saw  everywhere  bowed  heads 
and  evident  distress.  And  suddenly  he  remembered  his 
father's  dream. 

"True,"  he  said.  "It  is  your  right  to  pay  him  the  last 
honour  on  earth.  Carry  him  home. ' ' 

A  bier  was  found,  and  the  party  moved  off,  with  Ormarr 
at  the  head.  Alma,  with  eyes  staring  blankly  before  her, 
walked  between  him  and  old  Kata. 

All  the  others,  men,  women,  and  children,  followed  on  foot, 
leading  their  horses.  Never  had  the  parish  seen  so  impres- 
sive a  funeral  train,  nor  such  a  numerous  following. 

They  moved  but  slowly,  step  by  step,  all  the  long  road  to 


182  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Borg,  the  men  relieving  one  another  at  the  bier.  As  soon 
as  the  body  was  lifted  up,  they  commenced  with  one  accord  to 
sing  the  beautiful  funeral  hymn: 

" Alt  eins  og  blomstrid  eina," 

They  sang  through  all  the  verses,  and  when  it  was  ended, 
another  hymn  was  sung;  afterwards,  the  first  again. 

Singing  and  sobbing,  the  procession  moved  on — a  strange 
sight  to  see.  The  birds  circled  round  the  train  in  silence, 
forgetting  for  a  moment  their  spring  song.  But  the  sky  was 
clear  and  blue  as  before. 

So  they  passed  along  the  way.  When  they  reached  the 
river,  Ormarr  took  Alma  and  Kata  in  his  arms  and  carried 
them  across.  The  men  waded  over  likewise,  leading  their 
horses;  only  the  women  and  children  crossed  on  horseback. 

At  last  they  came  to  Borg.  The  body  of  the  chief  was 
laid  on  a  big  table  in  the  hall,  and  another  hymn  was  sung. 
The  followers  were  about  to  move  off,  when  Ormarr  turned 
to  them  'and  said: 

"You  have  carried  my  father  home,  and  I  thank  you.  I 
know  that  he  was  always  your  friend,  and  if  you  will  accept 
the  friendship  I  offer  you  now,  it  would  be  as  he  wished. 
I  hope  to  hold  the  place  he  held  amongst  you — that  of  a 
brother  and  friend.  And  if  you  have  need  of  me  in  any 
way,  you  know  where  to  find  me.  You  must  be  tired  and 
hungry  now.  If  you  will  break  bread  under  my  roof  now, 
before  you  return,  then  I  take  it  that  the  good-will  that  was 
of  old  between  Borg  and  its  neighbours  is  there  still." 

When  he  had  finished  speaking,  he  had  to  shake  hands 
with  all.  At  his  suggestion  the  women  went  out  to  the  kitchen 
and  pantries  to  prepare  food. 

It  was  late,  and  all  had  been  well  cared  for,  when  the  guests 
rode  away.  But,  before  they  left,  the  whole  staff  of  servants 
and  hands  who  had  been  at  Borg  that  spring  had  returned, 
having  obtained  release  from  their  later  masters,  and  permis- 
sion from  Ormarr  to  re-enter  their  former  service. 

Alma  never  recovered.  She  wandered  about  like  a  living 
corpse.  Old  Kata  nursed  her  as  well  as  she  could,  consoling 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  183 

herself  and  others  with  the  thought  that  she  did  not  suffer. 
Alma  was  no  longer  conscious  of  joy  or  pain. 

.  .  .  ••••'• 

Sera  Ketill  stood  in  the  pulpit,  watching  his  people  leave 
the  church.  He  made  no  movement,  but  followed  all  with 
observant  eyes. 

He  saw  how  the  scene  had  affected  his  wife,  and  that  she 
had  sought  refuge  with  his  father.  And  he  understood  that 
he  had  lost  her  for  ever.  Then,  marking  the  change  in  her 
expression,  he  suspected  the  truth:  that  she  had  lost  her 
reason  on  hearing  her  husband  denounced  by  his  own 
father. 

He  listened  to  his  father's  curse,  and  saw  him  sink  to 
the  ground  and  die.  He  heard  the  congregation  singing 
hymns  outside  the  church.  Then  gradually  all  sound  died 
away  .  .  .  the  last  he  heard  was  a  vague  murmur — fragments 
of  the  singing  borne  by  errant  winds  towards  him  through 
the  open  door. 

Still  he  remained  in  the  pulpit,  leaning  on  his  arms,  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  He  did  not  think.  A  scornful 
smile  seemed  frozen  on  his  lips;  he  suddenly  realized  that 
he  was  sneering,  and  wondered  how  long  he  had  been  doing 
so.  And  then  it  came  to  him  painfully  that  he  could  not  rest 
until  he  knew  what  it  was  all  about ;  he  must  wake,  and  look 
at  things  and  see.  And  suddenly  it  dawned  upon  him  that 
he  was  sneering  at  himself.  He  drew  himself  up  and  laughed 
aloud,  as  if  in  an  endeavour  to  break  the  terrible  stillness  of 
the  church.  He  marked  the  harsh,  uncanny  sound  of  his  own 
laughter.  And,  stepping  down  from  the  pulpit,  he  left  the 
church. 

From  the  churchyard  he  could  see  the  funeral  procession 
moving  towards  Borg.  He  watched  it  for  a  while,  tried  to 
laugh,  but  in  vain.  He  went  home,  and  found  the  house 
empty.  Looked  into  the  servants'  quarters — the  place  was 
deserted.  He  went  out  again  and  searched  about  outside. 

Coming  back  to  the  house,  after  making  sure  that  there 
was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen,  he  found  a  dog  beside  the  door. 
The  animal  slunk  away.  .  Ketill  spoke  to  it  softly,  beckoned 


184  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

to  it,  trying  with  friendly  voice  and  gesture  to  call  it  to 
him.  But  the  dog  would  not  come,  and  finally  ran  away. 

Ketill  looked  after  it  without  any  sign  of  emotion.  Then 
he  went  indoors  and  sat  down  at  his  writing-table.  He  sat 
there  all  through  the  day,  still  wearing  his  vestments. 
Thoughts  crowded  in  upon  him — thoughts  that  he  could  not 
drive  away. 

He  had  sinned  against  life,  taking  the  gift  of  life  in  vain. 
And  now  he  was  alone,  an  outcast,  rejected  and  despised  by 
all.  Even  a  dog  disowned  him. 

He  had  sinned  against  God,  taking  His  name  in  vain. 
The  House  of  God  was  closed  to  him.  Alone,  cursed  by  his 
father  and  abandoned  by  his  God ! 

He  had  sinned  against  love ;  he  had  used  his  utmost  efforts 
to  ruin  the  lives  of  two  innocent  women.  God  had  intervened 
to  save  them :  the  one  through  the  love  of  human  beings,  the 
other  by  taking  away  her  reason.  And  he — he  was  left  alone 
and  shunned  by  all.  The  world  was  full  of  love  around  him, 
on  every  side  were  human  beings,  his  fellow-creatures,  loving 
and  being  loved.  To  him  only  love  was  denied ;  for  him  alone 
there  was  no  kindly  thought  in  any  single  heart.  All  who 
knew  him  hated  and  despised  him.  He  had  crushed  the 
flower  of  love  underfoot — it  would  bloom  no  more  on  his 
way,  nor  gladden  him  by  its  fragrance. 

Alone.  And  what  should  he  do  now?  "Why  could  he  not 
sink  to  the  earth  and  die?  Why  was  not  his  body  given  to 
the  worms  ?  "Why  could  he  not  rot  away,  and  return  to  dust  ? 
"What  had  he  to  do  with  life  now?  Or  was  it  that  life  had 
not  yet  done  with  him  ? 

He  made  no  effort  to  check  the  current  of  his  thoughts, 
but  suffered  them  to  come  and  go  as  they  pleased. 

Tears  flowed  down  his  cheeks.  There  was  a  strange  sensa- 
tion at  his  heart  now,  as  if  despair  and  loneliness  were  to 
become  a  source  of  joy;  something  akin  to  what  the  earth 
must  feel  when  spring  casts  loose  the  fetters  of  winter. 

He  sat  on.  The  faint,  scarcely  perceptible  northern  twi- 
light crept  into  the  room ;  he  did  not  mark  it.  He  had  forgot- 


THE  DANISH  LADY  AT  HOP  185 

ten  the  existence  of  time.  His  only  thought  was  that  he  was 
alone. 

Alone. 

And  suddenly  he  fell  on  his  knees.  On  hands  and  knees 
he  crept  out  of  the  room,  through  the  passage,  out  into  the 
courtyard  and  across  the  enclosure,  through  the  churchyard 
up  to  the  door  of  the  church. 

He  pressed  his  forehead  against  the  granite  steps,  and 
sobbed  bitterly. 

The  sun  showed  in  the  north,  a  dull  red  glow,  with  the 
sky  deeper  and  darker  round  it.  Farther  off  hung  clouds, 
a  delicate  rose,  neatly  and  regularly  in  tier  upon  tier.  Night, 
but  the  sun  was  there.  The  meadows  were  thickly  veiled  with 
dew.  All  nature  was  at  peace. 

But  before  the  door  of  one  poor  dark  little  church  lay 
the  priest,  his  forehead  pressed  against  the  cold  stone. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  prayed  from  his  heart 
to  the  God  in  whom  he  had  never  before  believed. 

' '  Peace,  Lord,  give  peace  to  my  soul ! ' ' 

But  there  was  no  peace. 

Ketill  lay  there  long,  sobbing  and  praying.  Then,  rising, 
he  stood  with  bowed  head  and  clasped  hands,  and  whispered : 

"Lord,  I  will  seek  Thee  and  Thy  peace.  My  life  shall  be 
a  prayer  and  a  cry  to  Thee.  And  Thou  who  hast  said :  '  Seek, 
and  ye  shall  find;  ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  unto  you' — Thou 
wilt  not  deny  me  peace.  A  humble  and  a  contrite  heart  ..." 


BOOK  III 
GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 


CHAPTER  I 

A  GREY,  dull  day — not  a  glimpse  of  the  sun  since 
morning. 
A  man  came  hobbling  along  the  little-used  path, 
a  solitary  figure  under  the  leaden  sky.     The  clouds  hung  so 
low  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  heavens  had  fallen,  and  were 
supported  only  by  the  mountain  peaks  on  the  horizon.    A 
grey,  dull  day — and  the  man's  spirit  was  grey  and  dull  within 
him.    All  that  the  day  had  given  him  was  a  fragment  of  a 
song  that  had  sprung  into  his  mind;  he  hummed  it  half- 
consciously  as  he  went  along. 

"No  sun  over  the  sand, 

Waste,  waste. 
No  eagle  over  land, 
Dead,  dead." 

His  voice  was  deep  and  hollow-sounding;  in  its  depth  a 
ring  of  loneliness  and  unsatisfied  longing.  There  seemed  a 
power  of  fate  and  sorrow  behind  it,  as  behind  the  dull  roar  of 
the  sea.  The  eternal  restlessness  of  life,  and  the  boundless 
seeking  of  the  soul  quivered  in  this  old  man's  voice.  Strong, 
yet  soft,  its  tones  had  power  at  times  to  move  those  who 
heard  to  sadness  in  themselves. 

He  felt  a  peculiar  comfort  in  the  sound  of  his  own  voice 
when  wandering  thus  alone ;  and  he  was  a  man  who  wandered 
much  alone.  And  for  all  that  he  carried  no  heavy  burden, 
his  steps  often  faltered. 

His  right  leg  was  crippled,  which  made  journeying  none 
the  easier ;  the  stout  staff  he  carried  was  but  a  poor  substitute 
for  a  sound  limb. 

Despite  his  infirmity,  he  tramped  the  country  far  and  wide. 
Just  now,  he  was  on  his  way  across  the  chain  of  hills  to  the 
north  of  Hofsf jordur,  known  as  the  Dark  Mountains. 

189 


190  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

He  had  never  been  in  Hofsf  jordur.  All  the  other  districts 
round  he  had  visited  many  a  time  in  his  twenty  years  of 
vagabond  life,  but  somehow  he  had  always  passed  by  this. 
If  any  asked  him  why,  he  might  answer  that  it  was  because 
of  the  bad  roads.  Yet  he  was  well  used  to  roads  that  were 
no  better. 

However  it  might  be,  this  time  he  was  on  his  way.  The 
day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  he  had  still  far  to  go.  The 
night  would  be  dark,  and  hopeless  then  to  find  his  way ;  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  find  some  sheltered  spot  where  he 
could  rest. 

He  was  thoroughly  tired,  and  his  lameness  was  more  marked 
than  usual;  his  sound  leg  too  was  aching  from  its  unfair 
share  of  the  work.  He  rocked  along  uncertainly,  like  a 
machine  on  the  verge  of  breakdown,  or  a  windmill  making  its 
last  rotations  before  a  calm. 

His  heavy  coat  dragged  like  the  wings  of  a  wounded  bird. 
It  was  a  picture  well  in  keeping  with  the  landscape,  the  man 
with  his  long  white  beard,  the  tangled  grey  hair  showing 
below  a  big  soft  hat  of  the  indeterminate  colour  of  age. 
From  beneath  his  bushy  brows  showed  the  glimpse  of  an  eye 
— he  had  but  one — almost  unearthly  in  its  intelligence  and 
penetrating  glance.  His  whole  appearance,  with  his  beggar's 
pouch  and  limping  gait,  presented  an  almost  unreal  effect, 
harmonizing  to  a  striking  degree  with  the  surroundings.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  his  element  in  this  waste  tract,  beneath  the 
low-lying  clouds  that  at  times  almost  enveloped  him. 

He  limped  on,  a  monarch  in  the  realm  of  mist  and  solitude. 

But  there  was  nothing  of  power  in  his  thoughts.  He  sim- 
ply felt  at  home  here,  and  in  no  way  disheartened  at  the 
prospect  of  a  night  in  the  open. 

Again  and  again  he  hummed  his  fragment  of  a  song.  It 
was  his  way  to  make  up  such  refrains  as  he  walked,  humming 
them  hour  after  hour  to  while  away  the  tedium  of  the  road. 
Also,  it  was  a  form  of  expression,  giving  relief  to  his  feelings 
and  easing  his  mind. 

At  last,  after  innumerable  repetitions  of  his  melancholy 
chant,  he  fell  silent.  Not  all  at  once,  but  stopping  for  a  little, 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  191 

then  taking  it  up  and  stopping  again,  with  longer  and  longer 
pauses  between.  And  his  glance  grew  dull,  his  brow  wrinkled 
and  furrowed.  Night  was  at  hand;  he  stopped  on  a  sudden 
as  if  to  make  a  survey  of  his  surroundings. 

' '  Here  am  I,  a  worm  in  all  creation, ' '  he  muttered.  ' '  And 
the  day  has  left  me  up  on  a  desolate  hill.  Make  haste,  Eye, 
and  find  us  a  place  to  rest." 

Gradually  the  fog  lifted,  and  the  sky  cleared.  The  dark- 
ness, however,  grew  more  intense,  and  the  contours  of  the  hills 
were  soon  almost  indistinguishable. 

The  wanderer  glanced  around,  searching  for  some  corner 
that  might  offer  some  little  shelter.  Comfort  and  warmth 
were  not  to  be  expected  in  these  regions.  But  at  length  he 
spied  two  boulders  leaning  one  against  the  other.  "Like 
brothers,"  he  thought  to  himself,  and  added  aloud: 

"Good  evening,  brothers!" 

The  sense  of  loneliness  vanished,  and  his  heart  was  glad; 
he  seemed  to  feel  already  a  bond  of  kindliness  between  him 
•and  this  his  night's  abode.  Pleasanter  thoughts  rose  in  his 
mind,  and  he  gripped  his  faithful  staff  with  a  heartiness  that 
might  once  have  been  extended  to  his  fellow-men.  Now, 
the  staff  was  almost  his  only  friend.  He  spoke  to  it  aloud, 
thanking  it  for  help  during  the  day;  he  even  felt  somewhat 
shamed  at  not  having  done  so  before.  He  dug  and  scraped 
a/way  a  heap  of  moss  and  little  stones,  to  fill  the  northern 
opening  between  the  boulders,  making  a  kind  of  cave. 

This  done,  he  opened  his  wallet  and  took  out  some  food, 
given  him  earlier  in  the  day  by  some  kindly  soul,  and  ate 
it,  lying  in  the  shelter  of  his  cave.  When  the  meal  was 
finished,  he  rose  to  his  knees,  and  hid  his  face  for  a  moment 
in  his  hands,  as  if  silently  returning  thanks. 

Then  after  some  shifting  about,  he  curled  himself  up  in 
the  most  convenient  position  within  the  cramped  space  at 
his  disposal.  He  patted  the  hard  stones,  and  spoke,  half 
aloud,  as  his  thoughts  came. 

' '  Feel  strangely  happy  this  evening.  Not  lonely  now,  just 
at  home.  Nice  soft  sand  here  to  lie  on.  And  the  stones 
that  lie  there  saying  nothing,  they  are  like  friends.  Battered 


192  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

about,  like  me,  by  sun  and  storms  and  time.  Ay,  we've  much 
in  common,  for  all  they  stay  still  and  I'm  for  ever  moving 
from  place  to  place.  Who  knows — perhaps  this  night  may  be 
my  longest  at  last.  Must  come  some  time — some  night  be 
night  for  ever.  If  so,  'tis  a  good  place  for  old  bones  to 
rest.  Maybe  there  comes  One  tonight  to  take  the  unrest  out 
of  my  soul  and  give  me  the  peace  I've  sought.  If  so,  why, 
call  up  all  the  worms  and  creeping  things  that  live  on  flesh, 
and  make  a  feast  of  me." 

Drowsiness  crept  over  him ;  he  closed  his  eyes  and  prayed : 
"Lord,  see  the  end  of  one  more  day  in  Thy  service.  Lord, 
may  it  please  Thee  soon  to  lift  the  burden  from  my  shoulders 
— the  burden  of  sin.  Lord,  Thou  knowest  my  heart  is  full 
of  penitence  and  distress;  Lord,  grant  me  soon  Thy  peace. 
Amen!" 

He  ceased,  and  lay  for  a  while  without  opening  his  eyes. 
Then,  turning  over  on  his  side,  he  huddled  himself  up  for 
warmth,  and  resigned  himself  to  what  the  night  might  bring 
— rest,  or  the  fever  of  sleeplessness. 


CHAPTER  II 

MORNING  broke  with  the   clear  brightness   of   an 
autumn  sky  above  the  hills. 
At  the  first  sight  of  dawn,  the  old  man  limped 
out  from  his  cave,  beat  his  hands  together,  and  stamped 
his  sound  leg  repeatedly,  to  get  some  warmth  into  his  body. 
And  as  he  did  so,  he  thought: 

"So!  Once  more  Death  has  passed  me  by.  Not  worth 
taking.  ..." 

Then,  penitently,  he  whispered : 

"Lord,  Thy  will  be  done !  Thanks  be  to  Thee  for  the  night 
that  is  gone,  and  for  all  trials  that  are  sent  from  Thee.  Be 
not  angry,  Lord,  if  I  long  for  the  peace  of  Death. ' ' 

The  sun  came  up,  and  the  man  sat  down  on  a  stone,  bared 
his  head  and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  meet  the  warmth  of 
the  first  rays;  he  smiled  towards  the  light,  that  gave  but 
little  warmth  as  yet. 

When  the  first  cold  of  waking  had  passed,  he  ate  his  last 
scraps  of  food,  and  prepared  to  move. 

The  mood  of  last  night  and  his  gloomy  thoughts  seemed 
strange  to  remember  now;  he  smiled  involuntarily  at  the 
difference  between  his  feeling  then  and  now. 

"Never  twice  alike,"  he  murmured.  "What's  truth,  I 
wonder?  Can  there  be  any  truth  in  thoughts  and  feelings 
that  change  between  dark  and  dawn?  Where's  the  note  that 
lasts  and  does  not  change?" 

He  turned  to  go,  when  something  made  him  pause.  And, 
smiling  indulgently  at  himself  for  his  foolishness,  he  stooped 
and  picked  away  the  moss  and  stones  with  which  he  had 
closed  the  opening  the  night  before.  Then  he  patted  the  two 
rocks  that  had  sheltered  him,  and  went  on  his  way  with  an 
easier  mind.  Who  could  say?  Perhaps  they  were  lonely 
there,  and  would  have  been  sorry  to  feel  the  way  barred  to 

193 


194  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

the  passage  of  the  wind  that  told  so  many  things  as  it  sang 
through  the  sharp-edged  cleft. 

He  limped  off,  moving  stiffly  at  first,  his  limbs  still  feeling 
the  cold.  He  found  the  path  he  had  left  the  night  before  in 
his  search  for  a  resting-place,  and  went  on  his  way  towards 
Hofsfjordur. 

The  sun  rose  higher  in  the  heavens,  and  dried  the  dew 
from  the  rocks,  warming  their  surface  where  they  faced  it, 
while  the  northward  sides  were  still  dark  with  moisture.  In 
the  shade,  the  moss  glistened  with  dew.  As  far  as  eye  could 
see,  there  was  no  growth  save  the  brown  and  green  of  moss. 
But  the  old  wanderer  felt  quite  content;  he  was  at  home 
among  these  rock-strewn  hills,  so  rich  in  their  weird  group- 
ing and  fantastic  outlines.  He  was  among  friends  here,  and 
as  he  passed  the  massive  boulders  he  touched  them  with  his 
hand  caressingly,  grateful  for  the  warmth  that  passed  into 
his  blood.  The  sun  had  given  it,  and  they  passed  it  on. 

He  reached  Langeryg,  a  narrow  ridge  between  two  steep 
ravines,  and  stopped  to  look  around  him.  Farther  on  was  a 
meadow  of  pale  green  grass,  but  not  a  living  soul  was  to  be 
seen. 

Slowly  he  went  on  his  way,  keeping  carefully  to  the  middle 
between  the  steep  and  dangerous  precipices  on  either  hand. 
A  sinister  place  this,  and  of  ill  repute,  perilous  especially  in 
mist  or  darkness.  Even  now,  in  the  light  of  day,  the  wind 
moaned  dismally  round  the  sharp  rocks,  to  the  one  side,  that 
known  as  Death's  Cliff,  though,  strangely  enough,  no  sound 
came  from  the  other,  that  was  called  the  Silent  Cliff.  There 
was  a  legend  current  that  the  two  had  been  daughters  of  a 
king — one  good,  the  other  wicked,  one  dark,  the  other  fair. 
And  the  silent  chasm  was  the  good  princess  who  sat  listening 
in  horror  to  the  evil  doings  of  her  sister.  And  it  was  said 
that  if  any  could  be  found  to  cast  himself  voluntarily  over 
the  Silent  Cliff,  he  would  escape  unharmed,  and  the  ravines 
would  close  for  ever. 

Half-way  along  the  track,  the  old  man  felt  tempted  to  peer 
down  over  the  edge  of  Death's  Cliff.  Mastering  a  feeling  of 
dread,  he  crept  cautiously  to  the  brink,  and  looked  down, 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  195 

but  could  discern  nothing  in  the  darkness  below.  Suddenly 
a  great  black  bird  fluttered  up  out  of  the  gloom,  and  he 
started  back.  The  bird  uttered  a  hoarse  cry — and  the  man 
smiled  to  himself.  Only  a  raven,  that  had  been  to  visit 
the  princess — or  perhaps  to  see  if  there  were  any  unfortunate 
creatures  there  on  which  to  feast. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  drew  back  from  his  perilous  posi- 
tion, and  threw  himself  down  on  a  patch  of  grass  to  rest. 
Grass  was  a  welcome  thing  among  these  barren  hills,  and  the 
sight  of  it  gladdened  him.  He  found  himself  studying  each 
little  stalk  as  if  it  were  a  wonder  to  be  remembered. 

And  suddenly  tears  rose  to  his  eyes ;  his  lips  quivered,  and 
he  murmured: 

"Ay,  there  are  many  little  joys  in  life.  ..." 
He  glanced  down  the  path  ahead;  first  a  flat  stretch  of 
grass,  and  then  over  a  long,  stony  rise.     There  at  the  top 
he  knew  was  a  cairn,  from  which  one  could  look  out  over 
Hofsfjordur. 

Somehow  or  other,  he  felt  disinclined  to  go  on,  and  yet 
there  was  something  that  urged  him  forward.  He  felt  nerv- 
ous and  anxious,  as  a  boy  about  to  undertake  some  respon- 
sible task  for  the  first  time. 

When  at  last  he  reached  the  summit  of  the  slope,  he  stopped 
and  looked  down.  There  it  was  at  last,  the  shore  where  he 
had  spent  his  childhood.  There  lay  the  blue  fjord,  the  rocky 
ness,  the  glittering  stream,  the  grassy  slopes — all  that  he  had 
so  often  thought  of  with  affectionate  longing.  Ay,  he  had 
come  to  love  it  all — since  he  had  left  it. 

Tears  dimmed  his  vision  as  he  looked.  And  yet  he  was 
happy.  He  had  crossed  the  boundary  now;  he  was  coming 
home. 


H 


CHAPTER  III 

E  had  been  standing  for  some  time  leaning  against 
the  cairn,  when  suddenly  he  heard  a  dog  barking. 

He   turned   in   thel  direction   of   the   sound,   and 

perceived  a  young  man  approaching.    At  sight  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  he  forgot  all  else. 

The  newcomer  called  to  his  dog,  and  the  animal  was 
silent  at  once.  But  the  voice  of  the  stranger  went  to  the 
wanderer's  heart  as  had  never  a  voice  before. 

He  limped  towards  him,  and  held  out  his  hand,  a  glad 
smile  on  his  wrinkled  face. 

The  two  exchanged  greetings,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
taking  stock  of  each  other.  The  evident  emotion  of  the 
older  man  was  not  lost  upon  the  stranger. 

"A  beautiful  day,"  said  the  latter  after  a  pause. 

"Do  your  sheep  stray  as  far  afield  as  this?"  asked  the 
other.  He  seemed  to  be  taking  in  every  detail  of  the 
stranger's  appearance  as  he  spoke.  He  listened,  more- 
over, rather  to  his  voice  than  to  his  words,  though  the 
other  was  not  aware  of  this — as  little  as  he  guessed  that  the 
old  man  had  seen  his  face  many  years  ago,  and  recognized 
him  now. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  young  man,  somewhat  ill 
at  ease. 

"A  poor  wanderer,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  your  name?" 

The  old  man  hesitated.  "My  name,"  he  said  at  last — 
"there's  none  remembers  it  for  aught  but  ill." 

"Where  are  ycu  going  now?" 

"Going?  I  go  from  place  to  place,  and  live  by  grace 
of  God  and  my  fellow-men.  I  am  going  to  Hofsfjordur, 
I  have  never  been  there  before." 

"Then  you  will  come  to  Borg,  no  doubt!" 

196 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  197 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  queer  smile.  "I  shall 
come  to  Borg." 

"You  have  not  seen  any  sheep  on  your  way?  Or  any 
sign?" 

"Nay,  naught  but  a  raven  flying  up  from  below  Death's 
Cliff.  'Tis  the  only  living  creature  I  have  seen.  Were 
you  going  farther?" 

"No.  I  can  see  as  far  as  I  need  from  here.  We  can 
go  down  together;  I  have  looked  enough  for  today." 

"Have  you  lost  many  sheep?" 

"No.  Only  a  white  lamb  with  black  feet  and  head.  It 
was  a  sensible  beast,  and  strong,  when  it  went  up  with 
the  rest  in  the  spring — I  can  hardly  think  any  fox  could 
have  harmed  it.  But  it  was  a  favourite,  and  I  must 
find  it." 

"You  are  from  Borg,  then?"  queried  the  old  man,  look- 
ing away. 

"Yes.     My  name  is  0rlygur." 

"0rlygur  the  younger,  that  will  be?" 

"There  is  no  other  now.  0rlygur,  my  grandfather,  died 
many  years  ago." 

"Yes,  that  is  true.  He  died  in  the  church  at  Hof.  I  was 
there  at  the  time.  True  ..." 

"So  you  have  been  here  before?" 

"No — no.    It  was — my  other  self  that  was  here  then." 

The  young  man  seemed  busy  with  thoughts  of  his  own; 
he  took  no  notice  of  the  strange  reply.  He  stood  gazing 
for  some  moments  into  distance,  then  turned  and  looked 
searchingly  at  the  wanderer. 

"Then  you  must  have  known  Sera  Ketill?  He  is  dead, 
too." 

"Yes,  I  knew  Sera  Ketill,"  repeated  the  old  man.  And 
in  a  curiously  toneless  voice  he  went  on:  "He  is  dead,  too. 
Yes  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  young  man  realized  that 
he  could  not  here,  in  broad  daylight,  ask  all  he  would  of 
this  stranger,  who,  he  perceived,  could  tell  him  much. 


198  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Such  talk  was  for  the  dark,  when  men  can  speak  together 
without  reserve. 

''Will  you  come  back  with  me  now,  to  Borg?"  he  asked. 

"No.    I  must  go   elsewhere." 

"But  you  will  come  to  Borg?    You  give  me  your  word?" 

"I  give  you  my  word.  No  beggar  ever  came  this  way  and 
did  not  ask  for  alms  at  Borg." 

0rlygur  was  somewhat  embarrassed,  and  said  in  a  kindly 
tone: 

"Let  me  give  you  some  food  now.    We  can  share  it." 

"Heaven  bless  you,"  said  the  old  man. 

They  walked  down  the  slope  together,  and  found  a  seat 
on  a  grassy  mound.  0rlygur  opened  his  haversack  and 
took  out  first  a  new  pair  of  shoes. 

"Take  these,  will  you  not?"  he  asked  shyly.  "Yours  are 
badly  worn.  I  brought  these  with  me  in  case  my  own  gave 
out.  But  they  will  last  me  home  easily." 

The  old  man  took  them  gladly,  and  let  his  fingers  glide 
caressingly  along  the  clean  soles.  He  put  them  on,  and 
looked  up  with  deep  gratitude  in  his  face. 

"Pine  shoes,"  he  said,  and  laughed  happily. 

"It  does  not  take  much  to  please  you,"  said  0rlygur, 
with  a  smile.  "And  now  let  us  have  something  to  eat." 

They  ate  in  silence,  each  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts. 
0rlygur  was  watching  his  companion,  and  noticed  now  for 
the  first  time  that  one  eye  was  closed.  The  man's  appear- 
ance seemed  less  repulsive  now  than  at  first.  Evidently, 
one  who  had  seen  better  days. 

When  the  old  man  had  finished  he  wiped  his  mouth  and 
murmured  something  to  himself,  then  added  aloud: 

"Thanks  be  to  God."  And  he  reached  out  for  0rlygur's 
hand  in  thanks,  looking  at  it  closely  as  he  did  so. 

The  man's  touch  had  a  curious  effect  upon  0rlygur,  at 
once  pleasing  and  the  reverse.  He  was  well  used  to  shak- 
ing hands  with  men,  whether  friends  or  strangers,  and 
did  so  usually  without  a  thought.  But  with  this  beggar 
it  was  different;  he  felt  an  impulse  to  embrace  him,  and 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  199 

at  the  same  time-  shrank  from  giving  him  his  hand  at  all. 

They  walked  on  side  by  side,  but  for  a  long  time  no 
word  was  spoken.  Often  the  old  man  stopped,  and  leaned 
on  his  staff  to  rest.  At  length  they  reached  the  point 
where  the  road  branched  off  to  Nordurdalur.  Here  they 
halted,  and  sat  down  without  a  word. 

The  old  man  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You  will  cross  the  stream  now,  I  take  it,  and  take  the 
shorter  road.  I  am  going  down  alongside  the  stream.  I 
can  reach  Bolli  in  an  hour's  time.  There  is  still  some  one 
living  there?" 

"You  must  know  the  neighbourhood  well,"  said  0rlygur. 
"Yes;  a  widow  lives  there  with  her  daughter."  And  he 
blushed. 

The  old  man  noticed  it  and  smiled.  "Here  is  a  young 
man  who  is  still  a  child,"  he  thought.  "Cannot  speak  of 
the  widow's  daughter  without  blushing.  If  I  had  not  been 
a  stranger  he  would  not  have  spoken  of  her  at  all." 

Aloud,  he  said:  "I  hope  they'll  give  me  leave  to  sleep 
in  a  barn  tonight.  You're  not  going  that  way  yourself?" 

0rlygur  looked  aside.     "No,"  he  said  shortly. 

"Shall  I  tell  them  I've  met  you — by  way  of  greeting?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes." 

0rlygur  did  not  look  up.  The  old  man  rose  and  came 
towards  him.  "Good-bye,"  he  said,  offering  his  hand. 

"And  thank  you  for  good  company." 

"Good-bye  and  thanks." 

0rlygur  sat  looking  after  the  old  man  as  he  went.  Then, 
suddenly  springing  to  his  feet,  he  ran  after  him  and  asked: 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  your  name?" 

' '  Men  call  me  '  Guest  the  One-eyed, '  '  answered  the 
wanderer  quietly,  and  smiled. 

0rlygur  said  nothing,  but  his  face  showed  that  the  name 
was  not  unknown  to  him. 

"Good-bye,  again,  0rlygur  a  Borg." 

"Good-bye,    Guest    One-eyed,    and    God   be   with    you," 


200  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

answered  0rlygur  reverently,  pressing  the  other's  hand. 
The  wanderer  went  on  his  way,  following  the  course  of 
the  stream.  0rlygur  watched  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight, 
and  stood  for  a  long  while  looking  down  the  way  he  had 
gone. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  sun  had  vanished  behind  the  western  heights 
when  0rlygur  at  last  roused  himself  from  gazing 
down  the  valley.  The  figure  had  disappeared  long 
since. 

The  name  of  Guest  the  One-eyed  had  always  seemed 
to  him  a  part  of  some  fantastic  story;  now,  however,  it 
had  become  a  reality;  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  the 
man. 

He  knew  that  this  Guest  was  a  wandering  beggar,  and 
had  heard  many  stories  current  concerning  him.  He  knew 
also  that  Guest  the  One-eyed  had  never  before  visited  Hof  s- 
fjordur — possibly  it  was  this  fact  which  had  led  him  to 
regard  the  stories  as  stories  only,  without  reality.  Now 
that  he  had  learned  that  the  man  had  apparently  lived 
in  Hofsfjordur  before,  under  another  name,  it  seemed 
strange  to  him — it  had  never  struck  him  before  that  the 
name  of  Guest  the  One-eyed  must  have  had  some  natural 
origin. 

As  with  all  young  and  simple  folk  who  had  heard  of 
Guest  the  One-eyed,  0rlygur  felt  an  affection  for  the 
singular  character  of  report.  Many  were  the  instances  on 
record  of  kindness  and  courtesy  shown  by  the  wanderer  in 
his  journeyings.  He  had  lost  one  eye  in  saving  a  child 
from  a  burning  farm;  his  crippled  leg  was  the  result  of  his 
having  flung  himself  in  the  way  of  a  sledge  that  was  hurry- 
ing towards  a  dangerous  cliff — the  life  he  had  thus  saved 
being  that  of  no  more  romantic  personage  than  an  elderly 
and  by  no  means  beautiful  servant  girl.  This  latter  in- 
cident had  been  the  cause  of  some  ill-placed  amusement 
among  the  peasantry,  for  it  was  known  that  the  girl  had 
been  merely  making  a  foolhardy  attempt  to  win  the  heart 
of  one  of  the  labourers  near  by.  Her  rescuer,  however, 

201 


202  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

before  leaving  the  farm,  made  it  his  business  to  see  that  the 
marriage  was  duly  accomplished. 

0rlygur  knew,  also,  that  Guest  the  One-eyed  had  a  peculiar 
faculty  of  getting  over  difficulties  and  removing  misunder- 
standings; in  more  than  one  instance  he  had  been  the  means 
of  ending  an  irreconcilable  feud  and  establishing  firm  friend- 
ship in  its  stead. 

A  legendary  hero  in  real  life,  and  gifted  with  wisdom  far 
beyond  that  of  his  fellows.  Yet  he  never  used  his  powers 
for  his  own  advantage.  Nobler  than  those  around  him, 
he  was  nevertheless  content  to  tramp  the  country  in  rags, 
with  a  beggar's  staff.  In  point  of  intelligence,  he  seemed 
fitted  to  be  the  adviser  of  kings;  yet  he  chose  to  live  alone, 
and  to  seek  his  rest  in  barns  and  outhouses.  All  of  which 
led  folk  to  look  upon  him  as  the  personification  of  some- 
thing beneficent — the  spirit  of  kindliness  and  good-will.  And 
0rlygur  himself  had  felt  the  same. 

He  felt  a  great  desire  to  follow  after  the  old  man ;  a  crav- 
ing for  adventure  within  him  even  suggested  the  idea  of 
throwing  in  his  lot  with  him,  and  sharing  his  wanderings. 

But  as  the  sun  went  down,  he  woke  from  his  dreams  and, 
pulling  himself  together,  made  his  way  rapidly  towards 
home. 

Half-way  over  the  stream  he  stopped  suddenly;  the  water 
seemed  like  a  flood  of  gold  pouring  towards  him,  glittering 
wih  strang  reflections  in  the  evening  light.  And  the  play 
of  colour,  with  the  murmur  of  the  stream,  held  him  for  a 
moment  entranced.  Was  it  a  dream,  or  had  he  really  met 
Guest  the  One-eyed  in  the  flesh? 

Once  across,  however,  the  spell  was  broken,  and  0rlygur 
was  a  boy  again,  filled  with  no  more  romantic  fancy  for  the 
moment  than  an  impulse  to  run  races  with  his  dog.  He 
called  to  the  animal,  and  they  raced  away,  tearing  along  at 
top  speed. 

As  he  ran,  0rlygur  was  conscious  that  he  was  eager  to 
get  home  and  relate  his  adventure;  to  tell  of  his  conversa- 
tion with  the  One-eyed  Guest,  and  announce  the  arrival  of 
the  hero. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  203 

He  raced  on  homeward,  leaving  the  dog  far  behind.  The 
animal  followed  at  its  best,  till  it  saw  him  leap  the  fence 
of  the  enclosure,  when  it  gave  up  and  lay  down  panting 
breathlessly. 

0rlygur  likewise  could  run  no  more,  and  slackened  to  a 
walk.  Noticing  his  foster-father  approaching,  he  made  to- 
wards him. 

Ormarr  0rlygsson  had  seen  the  lad  come  tearing  down  the 
slope,  his  hat  off,  and  his  hair  streaming  in  the  wind.  He 
knew  how  the  boy  delighted  in  long  walks  and  violent  out- 
bursts of  energy,  but  this  exuberance  of  spirits  caused  him 
some  uneasiness  at  times — he  knew  that  a  day  would  come 
when  the  natural  safety-valve  of  youth  would  no  longer 
suffice.  Yet  he  could  not  suppress  a  smile  of  pleasure  at 
sight  of  the  handsome  lad  as  he  raced  away  at  a  speed  which 
bade  fair  to  tire  even  his  horses  and  dogs. 

Often  he  reflected  how  like  the  boy  was  to  his  father — the 
same  fair  hair,  the  same  blue  eyes,  the  same  splendid  build; 
the  figure  of  a  young  god. 

And  he  thought,  with  a  mingling  of  unconscious  love  and 
conscious  hate,  of  his  brother  Ketill,  who  had  disappeared 
the  night  after  that  terrible  scene  that  had  caused  his  fa- 
ther's death  and  lost  his  wife  her  reason.  It  was  said 
that  he  had  drowned  himself — he  had  last  been  seen  on  the 
cliffs  near  the  fjord.  True,  the  body  had  never  been  re- 
covered. Still,  it  might  have  been  carried  out  to  sea. 

After  the  revelation  of  that  day,  when  the  facts  had  been 
made  common  knowledge,  and  seeing  that  Ketill  had  dis- 
appeared, in  all  likelihood  never  to  return,  Ormarr  had 
ceased  to  give  out  0rlygur,  KetilFs  and  Euna's  child,  as  his 
own.  He  and  Buna  had  continued  to  live  as  man  and  wife, 
but  no  children  had  been  born  to  them. 

They  lived  peacefully  and  happily  at  the  farm,  with 
never  an  unkind  word  between  them.  At  all  times,  whether 
they  spoke  or  were  silent,  there  was  a  mutual  bond  of  per- 
fect confidence  and  affection  between  them.  Life  had 
brought  them  together  in  a  strange  and  merciless  fashion, 
but  the  innate  good  sense  and  nobility  of  both  had  turned 


204  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

all  to  the  good.  They  knew  that  they  had  never  been  lovers 
in  the  sense  in  which  love  is  generally  understood,  yet,  as 
the  years  passed,  there  grew  up  between  them  a  happiness 
of  each  in  each  that  filled  their  lives.  And  their  mutual 
trust  gave  them  a  surer  foundation  on  which  to  rest  than 
any  lovers'  love  could  give. 

0rlygur  rarely  gave  a  thought  to  the  fact  that  Ormarr 
was  not  his  real  father.  He  knew  it,  because  Ormarr  had 
once,  in  the  presence  of  Runa,  told  him  how  matters  stood. 
No  details  had  been  given,  but  the  facts  were  plainly  stated : 
Ormarr  had  promised  to  tell  him  the  whole  story  some  day, 
if  he  wished.  But  0rlygur  perceived  that  the  subject  was  a 
painful  one,  and  had  asked  no  further  since. 

Had  it  not  been  from  fragments  of  information  gathered 
in  course  of  time  from  one  or  another  outside  the  home,  he 
would  have  known  but  little.  What  he  did  know  made  to- 
wards the  conclusion  that  his  father  had  been  a  bad  man, 
who  had  wrought  harm  to  his  own  kin.  But  strangely 
enough,  he,  0rlygur,  did  not  suffer  thereby.  The  misfor- 
tunes that  had  come  after  seemed  to  have  wiped  away,  as 
it  were,  the  stain  on  the  family  honour,  and  as  years  went 
by,  the  recollection  of  Sera  Ketill  seemed  gradually  to  lose 
its  association  with  the  house  of  Borg.  The  story  of  Sera 
Ketill  lived  on — a  gruesome  tale  enough  in  itself.  But  it 
had  become  a  thing  apart. 

And  0rlygur,  growing  up  at  Borg,  became  one  of  the 
family  there,  until  it  was  almost  forgotten  that  he  was  in 
any  way  related  to  his  father,  Sera  Ketill  of  unblessed  mem- 
ory. 0rlygur  was  aware  of  this,  and  at  times  could  feel  a 
kind  of  remorse  at  the  thought — for,  after  all,  his  father  was 
his  father.  .  .  .  And,  as  he  grew  up,  he  tried  to  picture 
to  himself  what  his  father  had  really  been.  In  his  inmost 
heart  he  could  not  quite  believe  him  so  utterly  evil  as  report 
made  out. 

But  there  was  no  one  whom  he  could  ask — no  one,  in- 
deed, to  whom  he  could  even  speak  on  the  subject  at  all.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  open  a  painful  subject  with  his 
foster-father  or  his  mother.  There  was  only  old  Kata,  the 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  205 

faithful  attendant  of  the  poor  witless  Danish  Lady.  And 
Kata's  replies  to  his  questioning  were  always  wrapped  up 
in  mysterious,  incomprehensible  allusions.  0rlygur,  in  com- 
mon with  others,  regarded  her  as  entering  on  her  second 
childhood,  though  she  was  sound  and  active  as  ever  in  body. 

0rlygur  was  still  out  of  breath  when  he  reached  Ormarr. 

"Well,"  said  the  latter,  "did  you  find  the  lamb?  You 
look  very  pleased  with  yourself." 

"No,"  said  0rlygur.  "But  I  found — whom  do  you  think? 
Guest  the  One-eyed !  Right  up  at  the  very  edge  of  the  pas- 
tures, in  the  hills.  And  I  went  with  him  as  far  as  Nordura. 
I  didn't  know  who  he  was  till  we  said  good-bye.  And  I 
gave  him  my  shoes,  and  he  is  wearing  them  now." 

0rlygur's  delight  and  pride  at  this  last  fact  were  so  evi- 
dent that  Ormarr  could  not  help  smiling. 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  him  back  home  with  you?" 

"He  is  coming.  He  promised  faithfully  he  would.  He 
was  too  tired  now.  Said  he  was  going  down  the  stream  to 
one  of  the  nearest  farms  there." 

Ormarr  did  not  fail  to  remark  that  the  boy  had  avoided 
mentioning  Bolli,  but  he  made,  no  sign  of  having  noticed 
anything.  He  had  an  idea  that  0rlygur  cherished  a  fancy 
for  the  daughter  there,  but  it  seemed  wiser  to  wait  before 
taking  any  definite  action.  He  was  not  at  all  pleased  with 
the  idea  of  a  match  between  0rlygur  and  the  child  of  the 
so-called  "widow"  at  Bolli.  But  he  was  loth  to  interfere 
with  the  boy's  affairs — after  all,  he  was  of  an  age  to  choose 
for  himself.  And  Ormarr  knew  too  well  that  the  men  of 
his  race  were  apt  to  be  headstrong  in  affairs  of  the  heart. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  were  mistaken — if  the  affair  were 
not  really  serious,  his  interference  would  do  no  good.  If 
the  damage  were  already  done,  and  0rlygur  had  made  up 
his  mind,  then  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  wait  and 
see. 

0rlygur  himself  did  not  know  whether  his  parents  were 
aware  of  his  affection  for  Snebiorg,  the  girl  from  Bolli.  But 
he  was  convinced  that  they  would  not  agree  with  his  choice. 
Even  if  they  did  not  oppose  it,  he  knew  it  would  pain  them. 


206  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Up  to  now,  his  will  and  conscience  had  always  been  in 
accord  with  theirs.  In  this  case  he  was  quite  clear  as  to  his 
own  feelings,  but  was  loth  to  bring  matters  to  a  head.  There 
was  time  enough — no  definite  promise  had  'as  yet  been  given 
on  either  side,  though  there  was  certainly  a  tacit  understand- 
ing between  them. 

Ormarr  and  0rlygur  walked  across  the  enclosure  to- 
gether. 

"And  what  else  did  he  say — the  old  man?"  asked  Ormarr. 

0rlygur  was  at  a  loss  for  an  answer.  He  could  not 
remember  anything  else  of  importance,  and  it  seemed  some- 
how unsatisfactory  to  have  met  the  celebrated  vagabond, 
renowned  for  his  wisdom,  and  bring  back  no  utterance 
worthy  of  remark.  He  said  nothing — and  Ormarr  did  not 
press  the  question,  but  walked  beside  him  with  the  quiet, 
peculiar  smile  that  had  become  characteristic  of  him. 

But  when  they  reached  the  house,  0rlygur  found  himself 
once  more  a  person  of  importance.  Old  Kata  came  hobbling 
towards  him,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"You  have  met  him,  and  spoken.  And  felt  joy  of  the 
meeting — more  than  with  any  other  you  have  ever  met. 
The  Lord  is  great,  and  our  eyes  are  blind.  Yes;  he  will 
come  now,  and  all  will  be  well." 

Kata  hobbled  off  again  to  her  mistress,  whom  she  never  left 
for  any  length  of  time. 

The  two  men  stood  watching  her  with  a  smile. 

"She  still  has  the  gift,  you  sec,"  observed  Ormarr.  "No 
need  to  tell  her  that  you  had  met  with  Guest  the  One-eyed 
in  the  mountains." 


CHAPTER  V 

ALMA  dragged  on  her  timeless,  feelingless  existence 
under  old  Kata's  care.  Age  had  left  no  mark  on 
her,  though  it  was  twenty  years  now  since  the 
tragic  event  that  had  deprived  her  of  her  reason.  In  the 
world  about  her  there  had  been  changes:  those  who  had 
been  in  the  prime  of  life  at  that  time  were  now  aged  and 
infirm;  the  children  of  those  days  were  grown.  But  Alma 
was  to  all  appearances  the  same  as  on  the  day  when  she  had 
left  the  church  at  Hof,  released  from  suffering  by  the  break- 
down of  all  capacity  to  feel  or  understand.  She  looked  a 
trifle  healthier — less  pale,  that  was  all. 

And  her  life  now  had,  despite  its  essential  monotony,  a 
certain  variation  of  a  sort.  She  smiled  happily  when  the 
sun  shone,  but  wept  when  the  clouds  hid  it  from  her  sight. 
Her  joys  were  those  of  childhood — fine  weather,  dumb  ani- 
mals, flowers,  and  the  presence  of  certain  chosen  friends. 
There  were  some  of  her  fellow-creatures  whom  she  loved, 
without  knowing  why.  Others  she  dialikeid  no  less  dis- 
tinctly, and  contact  with  them  would  render  her  depressed 
for  days.  Strangers,  in  particular,  invariably  troubled  her 
mind. 

In  course  of  time,  people  had  come  to  attribute  this  dis- 
crimination to  a  strange  instinct  that  had  taken  the  place 
of  the  ordinary  human  intelligence  she  no  longer  possessed. 
She  was  still  spoken  of  as  the  Danish  Lady  at  Hof,  though 
for  years  she  had  not  set  her  foot  outside  the  limits  of  Borg. 

She  spoke  but  little.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  forgotten 
not  only  her  native  tongue,  but  also  the  little  Icelandic  she 
had  ever  learnt.  She  picked  up  odd  words  and  sentences, 
however,  uttering  them  afterwards  incoherently.  And  she 
had  a  kind  of  language  of  her  own  invention — a  combina- 
tion of  curious  expressions  and  strange  gestures,  which 

207 


208  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

those  about  her  learned  to  understand.  Old  Kata  was  an 
adept  in  this  mode  of  intercourse,  and  pleased  her  mistress 
by  her  quickness  of  understanding. 

The  two  women  occupied  one  room,  with  two  windows,  in 
which  they  had  their  favourite  seats.  They  would  sit  there 
for  hours,  old  Kata  with  her  knitting,  and  Alma  gazing  at 
the  world  outside,  and  following  with  childish  interest  any- 
thing that  might  be  happening  within  view.  For  the  most 
part,  they  were  silent,  but  now  and  again  passers-by  might 
hear  them  exchanging  words  in  their  own  unintelligible 
form  of  speech. 

They  had  little  to  do  with  others,  though  Alma  knew 
all  the  servants  and  farm  hands  on  the  place.  All  loved 
her,  and  towards  old  Kata,  too,  the  general  feeling  was  one 
of  kindly  regard. 

On  Sundays  they  joined  the  circle  for  Bible  reading  or 
singing,  after  which  coffee  was  handed  round,  Alma  play- 
ing the  part  of  hostess.  It  was  one  of  the  small  recurring 
pleasures  in  her  life,  and  both  she  and  Kata  found  an  ever- 
new  delight "  in  the  arrangement. 

Sometimes  the  master,  Ormarr  0rlygsson,  if  so  disposed, 
would  bring  out  his  violin  and  treat  his  people  to  an  enter- 
tainment. He  invariably  began  with  merry  tunes,  and  fin- 
ished with  strange,  heart-stirring  themes;  the  simple  listen- 
ers knew  nothing  of  the  great  composers,  but  the  music  had 
its  own  effect  on  them,  and  often  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of 
the  more  impressionable  amongst  them. 

When  he  had  played  thus,  Ormarr  would  leave  the  room 
abruptly;  the  rest,  sitting  in  silence,  would  hear  him  leave 
the  house.  And  then  the  party  broke  up,  each  to  his  work 
or  play. 

But  Ormarr  went  off  alone  into  the  hills.  At  times  he 
might  be  seen  pacing  to  and  fro;  sometimes  he  would  find 
some  spot  where  he  could  lie  and  rest,  but  he  never  returned 
to  the  farm  until  all  had  retired  for  the  night.  There  were 
always  two,  however,  who  waited  his  return.  One  was  old 
Kata,  who  sat  by  the  window  till  she  saw  or  heard  him 
back  again — sat  weeping,  though  he  never  dreamed  of  any 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  209 

such  sympathy  on  her  part.  Not  till  she  knew  that  he  was 
safely  within  doors — had  fought  out  that  day's  fight  with 
his  God,  as  she  put  it  to  herself — would  she  go  to  rest. 

The  other  was  his  wife,  lying  awake  in  bed  till  he  came. 
No  words  were  spoken  when  he  returned;  in  silence  he  lay 
down  at  her  side,  drawing  close  to  her,  with  one  arm  round 
her  neck.  Lying  thus,  rest  would  come  to  him  and  he  could 
sleep. 

The  only  other  event  in  the  life  of  Alma  and  her  aged 
nurse  was  when  visitors  came  to  the  place.  All  invariably 
came  in  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  Danish  Lady  however 
brief  their  stay  or  how  pressing  their  errand  might  be. 
Some  did  so  from  a  natural  desire  to  show  their  sympathy 
with  one  afflicted  by  God;  others  from  a  secret  fear  that 
God  would  punish  them  if  they  did  not.  And  Alma  seemed 
able  to  distinguish  between  those  who  came  of  their  own 
kind  will  and  those  who  merely  obeyed  a  custom  they  feared 
to  break. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  linmped  wearily  along  by 
the  side  of  the  stream. 
The  path  he  followed  wound  with  many  turns, 
following  the  course  of  the  water,  and  in  places  quite  near 
to  the  edge,  the  bank  sometimes  overhanging  the  riverbed 
below.    At  one  spot  the  river  actually  tunnelled  its  way  un- 
derground for  some  few  yards,  leaving  a  kind  of  natural 
bridge  above.    When  he  reached  this  spot  the  wanderer  knew 
that  he  was  not  far  from  Bolli. 

His  thoughts  were  busy  with  recollection  of  the  young 
man  he  had  met  up  in  the  hills. 

"So  that  was  he,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "A  handsome 
lad,  strong  and  manly,  and  of  a  kindly  heart,  by  his  eyes." 
He  thought  of  the  evident  pleasure  with  which  the  boy  had 
given  him  the  shoes  and  shared  his  food  with  him.  Ay,  a 
true  son  of  his  race — little  fear  of  his  bringing  sorrow  upon 
Borg. 

And  the  old  man's  heart  beat  faster  at  the  thought  that 
he  would  soon  see  the  girl  whom  0rlygur  had  chosen  for 
his  bride.  His  knowledge  of  men  had  enabled  him  to  read 
clearly  enough  the  signs  of  0rlygur's  feeling;  it  was  evi- 
dent, also,  that  the  two  young  people  understood  each  other. 

He  forgot  his  weariness  and  hurried  on. 

Then,  rounding  a  bend  of  the  river,  he  came  suddenly 
upon  the  tiny  homestead,  a  cluster  of  small  buildings  on  a 
little  piece  of  rising  ground.  A  thin  smoke  rose  from  a 
chimney — that  must  be  from  the  open  hearth  in  the  kitchen. 
The  ground  outside  was  marked  by  heaps  of  hay,  in  regular 
rows;  a  solitary  horse  was  grazing  on  the  hillside,  and  a 
few  sheep  nosed  about  among  the  rocks  down  by  the 
river. 

For  some  minutes  he  stood  looking  over  the  place.    So 

210 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  211 

this  was  where  the  two  women  passed  their  quiet  lives. 
Mother  and  daughter,  living  for  some  reason  apart  from 
their  neighbours.  The  old  wanderer  knew  well  enough 
that  it  was  often  not  the  worst  of  human  kind  that  chose  to 
live  aloof  from  their  fellows. 

As  he  approached  the  house,  a  dog  ran  out  barking 
angrily.  Immediately  after,  a  young  woman  appeared.  At 
first  sight  of  the  strange  figure  coming  towards  her,  she 
turned  as  if  to  go  indoors  again,  but  changed  her  mind  and 
advanced  to  meet  him. 

"Here  is  one  who  is  tired,"  said  she.  "Can  I  help  you, 
old  man?" 

And  she  took  his  arm. 

"Thanks,  blessed  child,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  smile. 
The  girl  looked  up  at  his  face. 

"Oh — you  have  only  one  eye!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  stranger,  with  a  chuckle.  "Worms 
couldn't  wait  for  it.  They'll  have  the  other  one  soon,  and 
the  rest  of  me  with  it." 

"You  should  not  talk  like  that,"  said  the  girl,  with  child- 
ish displeasure. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  changed  his  tone.  "Yes,"  he  said 
earnestly.  "You  are  young  and  wise,  and  I  am  old  and 
foolish.  'Tis  not  a  matter  for  jesting.  What  is  your  name, 
child!" 

"Snebiorg  is  my  name.  Mother  calls  me  Bagga,  but  I 
don't  let  other  people  call  me  that — or  only  one  other,  per- 
haps, if  he  cares  to.  And  you  perhaps,  too,  because  you  are 
not  like  other  folk." 

"One  other — if  he  cares  to?  Don't  you  know  whether 
he  cares  to  or  not?" 

"No — for  I  have  never  spoken  to  him." 

"But — are  you  not  lovers,  then?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never  spoken — only 
written  letters  to  each  other?" 

"Written?  No."  Bagga  looked  up  in  surprise.  "We 
have  looked  at  each  other.  Isn't  that  enough?" 


212  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

There  was  a  strange  earnestness  in  the  old  man's  voice  as 
he  answered: 

"Surely  it  is  enough.    And  are  you  very  fond  of  him?" 

"I  love  him." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  Guest  the  One-eyed  wished 
to  have  his  message  given  before  going  into  the  house. 

"I  have  seen  him,"  he  said.  "And  I  was  to  bring  you 
greeting  from  him." 

The  girl  stopped  still  and  clasped  her  hand  to  her  breast. 
The  colour  had  risen  to  her  cheeks  as  she  spoke  of  her  lover ; 
now  she  turned  pale.  The  old  man  looked  at  her  intently, 
taking  in  her  fine  profile,  her  beautiful  eyes  and  lovely  hair, 
the  fineness  of  her  figure.  He  realized  that  these  two  were 
destined  for  each  other;  that  they  must  love  each  other  at 
first  sight. 

Bagga  could  hardly  speak  at  first.  After  a  while  she 
said: 

"You  have  spoken  to  him?  Is  it  long  ago?  What  did 
he  say?  Did  he  ask  you  to  bring  me  greeting?" 

"No." 

"But  you  said  so  just  now!"  She  looked  at  him  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  asked  if  I  should  bring  you  greeting,  and  he  said  yes. 
And  I  read  more  in  his  eyes.  Can  you  guess  what?" 

"No." 

"That  he  loves  you,  and  is  for  ever  thinking  of  you. 
That  he  will  always  be  true  to  you." 

"That  I  knew  long  ago.  But  how  could  you  know  that 
it  was  he?" 

"It  needs  not  long  to  find  out  that.  Shall  I  tell  you  his 
name  ? ' ' 

"No,"  answered  the  girl,  colouringly  deeply.  "Did  he 
say  anything  else?  Was  he  looking  for  a  lamb  that  had 
strayed?" 

"Yes,  a  favourite  lamb,  and  he  was  afraid  some  fox 
might  have  harmed  it." 

Bagga  looked  serious. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  213 

"It  is  here,"  she  said  hesitatingly.  "It  strayed  over 
here  early  in  the  summer,  and  I  have  been  keeping  it  with 
our  sheep.  I  knew  it  was  his,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  part 
with  it.  But  tonight,  when  every  one  is  asleep,  I  will  take 
it  over  to  Borg.  Then  he  will  find  it  in  the  morning,  and 
be  glad." 

She  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the  thought. 

"Can't  you  remember  any  more  he  said?  Did  you  have 
a  long  talk  with  him?" 

"Yes — but  I  have  forgotten.  He  gave  me  these  shoes  I 
am  wearing  now." 

Bagga  was  immediately  keenly  interested  in  the  old  man's 
shoes. 

"I  hope  you  have  not  worn  a  hole  in  them  yet.  But,  if 
you  have,  I  will  mend  them  for  you." 

"No,"  answered  the  old  man,  with  a  quiet  smile.  "I  am 
sorry  to  say  there  is  nothing  to  mend." 

Bagga  blushed  again,  but  added  quickly,  "But  you  can 
let  me  set  them  in  oil  for  you  tonight,  then  they  will  be 
soft  in  the  morning.  You  will  stay  here  tonight,  will  you 
not?" 

"Gladly,  if  you  will  house  me." 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  the  house,  and  Bagga  led  him 
through  a  dark  passage  into  the  room.  Seated  on  a  bed  was 
an  elderly  woman,  busy  mending  some  clothes.  The  visitor 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the  girl's  clothing  was  almost 
as  patched  as  his  own.  It  was  not  so  noticeable,  however, 
in  a  pretty  girl. 

The  old  woman  sat  up  and  stared  at  him. 

' '  Who  is  this  ? ' '  she  asked  in  surprise. 

"A  beggar,  lady.    Peace  be  with  you." 

The  woman's  glance  softened. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  "and  welcome  to  what  we  can  give. 
Sit  down.  Have  you  come  far?" 

"From  across  the  Dark  Mountains." 

"So  far — and  you  are  lame?  Quick,  Bagga,  make  some 
coffee." 


214  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Bagga  whispered  something  in  her  mother's  ear.  The 
latter  looked  at  her  daughter,  and  then  at  the  stranger.  Her 
glance  expressed  concern. 

"Is  it  true?  You  have  lost  an  eye,  and  lame  as  well?" 
She  came  towards  him.  "Then  you  must  be  ...  you  are 
Guest  the  One-eyed?" 

' '  So  I  am  called, ' '  was  the  reply. 

She  grasped  his  hand,  and  her  voice  trembled. 

"God  bless  you!"1  she  said  earnestly — "God  bless  you! 
And  blessed  be  the  hour  that  brought  you  here. ' ' 

Bagga  had  left  the  room,  and  the  two  were  alone. 

"Where  did  you  spend  the  night?" 

"On  the  hills." 

"And  without  shelter?  How  can  you  endure  such  hard- 
ships— an  old  man?  ..." 

"I  am  well  hardened  to  it  by  now.  Though,  to  tell  the 
truth,  my  shoulder  is  somewhat  stiff  from  last  night." 

"I  hope  it  may  be  no  worse.  Let  me  make  up  a  bed  for 
you  now,  and  you  can  have  a  good  rest." 

"I  would  rather  lie  in  the  hayloft.  A  bed  would  seem 
strange  to  me  now." 

Somewhat  unwillingly  the  widow  agreed  to  let  him  have 
his  way. 

"So  you  have  come  to  Hofsfjordur  after  all,  though  after 
many  years." 

"Yes;  Fate  has  brought  me  here  at  last,  in  my  old  age." 

"Then  Fate  is  kind  to  us." 

"Fate  is  always  kind,"  replied  the  old  man  earnestly. 

"Even  when  it  brings  us  trouble  and  distress?" 

"Then  most  of  all,  good  soul,  if  you  did  but  know." 

"Even  when  it  leads  us  into  temptation — drives  us  to 
sin?"  The  widow  looked  up  at  him  quickly  as  she  spoke, 
and  lowered  her  eyes  again. 

"We  mortals  are  poor  clay;  God  has  need  of  strange  ways 
to  work  us  to  His  will." 

"Then  you  think  all  that  happens  is  decreed — a  part  of 
God's  plan  with  us?" 

"In  a  way,  yes.    Each  man's  actions  are  determined  by 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  215 

the  nature  of  his  soul;  that  makes  his  fate.  All  that  men 
do  is  a  result  of  their  own  character.  But  the  deeds  that 
we  do  most  naturally  are  good.  Therefore,  we  should  each 
be  master  of  ourself. " 

"But  a  sin  committed  can  never  be  a  good  action  or  lead 
to  any  good.  Surely  it  were  better  that  such  'an  act  had 
never  been?" 

"A  sin  committed  can  bring  out  the  good  in  one  who  is 
so  made  that  the  good  in  him  can  be  reached  by  no  other 
way.  One  can  wander  through  many  lands  and  yet  not 
escape  from  one  evil  deed.  The  memory  of  it  will  stay  fresh 
in  the  mind,  and  in  time  can  soften  the  hardest  heart,  or  make 
the  weakest  strong ;  good  thoughts  and  strength  of  will  grow 
out  of  it.  I  speak  as  I  have  found  it.  But  perhaps  you 
have  not  found  it  so." 

The  woman  bent  over  her  work. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "You  speak  the  truth.  I,  too,  have 
sinned,  and  the  memory  of  it  has  made  me  better  than  I  was, 
or  ever  could  have  been  without  it.  But  I  never  thought  of 
it  so  until  now." 

Bagga  entered  with  some  food.  She  wore  a  bandage  over 
one  eye. 

"What  is  it,  child? — have  you  hurt  yourself?"  asked  the 
mother  anxiously. 

Bagga  blushed  hotly,  set  down  the  plates,  and  tore  away 
•the  handkerchief  from  her  head,  laughing  nervously. 

The  others  laughed  too — it  was  easy  to  see  what  the  girl 
had  been  doing. 

"I  forgot  to  take  it  off,"  she  explained  shyly.  "It's  not 
so  very  bad,  after  all,  to  have  only  one  eye." 

"Better  to  have  two,"  said  Guest  the  One-eyed.  "More 
especially  if  they  are  as  blue  and  as  good  as  yours."  And 
.  he  looked  at  her  with  a  kindly  smile. 

Bagga  was  still  embarrassed;  she  glanced  anxiously  at  the 
visitor,  and  asked:  "You  are  not  angry  with  me?" 

He  patted  her  arm.  "How  could  I  be?  After  you  have 
given  me  leave  to  call  you  Bagga  ? ' ' 

"When  you  go  away  from  here,  I  will  go  with  you  all  the 


216  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

way  to  the  next  place.  I  am  strong,  and  I  can  carry  your 
sack  for  you." 

"That's  kind  of  you.  And  I  shall  not  be  angry  with  you, 
not  even  if  you  fasten  a  stick  to  one  leg  just  to  see  what  it 
feels  like  to  be  lame ! ' ' 

Bagga's  cheeks  were  burning  now;  she  was  nearly  crying. 

"I — I  did  just  now,"  she  confessed.  "And  it  was  much 
worse  than — the  other.  But  I  '11  never  do  it  again. ' ' 

Guest  the  One-eyed  burst  out  laughing.  Even  the  girl's 
mother  could  not  help  joining  in.  And  there  was  not  much 
of  anger  in  the  rebuke  she  gave  her  daughter. 


CHAPTER  VII 

NIGHT  spread  its  broad,  dark  wings  over  the  land. 
Under  the  shadow  of  night  the  world  is  changed 
from  what  it  was  while  day  still  reigned.  Fear, 
that  the  daylight  holds  in  check,  is  then  abroad,  and  the 
unseen  seems  nearer  than  before.  All  things  are  changed, 
save  Love  that  is  unalterable ;  Love  that  is  constant  whether 
in  light  or  dark. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  had  long  since  laid  his  tired  limbs 
to  rest  in  the  hay,  the  widow's  soul  far,  far  away  in  the  land 
of  dreams,  when  the  outer  door  of  the  house  opened  slowly; 
only  a  crack  at  first,  through  which  the  dog  silently  made 
its  way,  followed  then  by  the  girl,  who  stepped  with  careful, 
noiseless  tread. 

Bagga  closed  the  door  behind  her  without  a  sound,  patted 
the  dog,  and  whispered  to  it  to  be  silent.  And  the  intelligent 
beast  seemed  to  understand  that  this  was  a  business  that  must 
be  kept  secret  between  it  and  its  mistress. 

Off  went  the  pair,  in  the  direction  of  the  stream,  the  dog 
hard  at  Bagga 's  heels,  and  evidently  interested  in  the  night's 
adventure. 

As  they  neared  the  flock  of  sheep,  where  they  lay  huddled 
together  for  the  night,  she  made  the  dog  lie  down,  while  she 
called  softly,  as  was  her  wont,  for  0rlygur's  lamb.  There 
was  a  slight  commotion  in  the  flock,  and  the  black-headed 
lamb  came  trotting  up. 

Offering  some  bread  she  had  brought  with  her,  Bagga 
gradually  enticed  it  away  from  the  rest.  She  moved  very 
slowly,  to  avoid  alarming  the  others,  over  towards  the  natural 
bridge  across  the  stream. 

The  dog  trotted  along  behind,  with  its  tail  down.  It  was 
jealous  of  the  lamb,  knowing  well  that,  when  Bagga  had  it 

217 


218  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

with  her,  any  other  creature  must  take  second  place.  To 
approach  her  now  would  mean  a  scolding,  and  the  dog  had 
no  desire  to  be  sent  back  home,  just  when  there  was  every 
prospect  of  something  quite  unusual  happening. 

All  went  well.  The  lamb  gave  no  trouble,  and  the  dog 
followed  at  a  safe  distance. 

But  the  girl's  heart  was  sad;  it  was  hard  now  to  have  to 
part  with  the  lamb  she  had  cherished  as  a  link  between  her 
lover  and  herself — a  tangible  memory  of  the  one  she  loved 
so  deeply,  yet  with  whom  she  had  never  spoken — whom  she 
had  only  seen  now  and  then  at  church  on  Sundays. 

Beaching  the  bridge,  she  took  off  her  garter  and  fastened 
it  round  the  lamb's  neck,  to  have  something  to  hold  by  in 
case  the  animal  should  take  fright.  Then  carefully  she  led  it 
across,  the  earth  underfoot  vibrating  all  the  time  with  the 
rush  of  the  water  below. 

After  a  time,  the  supply  of  breadcrumbs  having  ceased, 
the  lamb  grew  lazy,  and  showed  signs  of  becoming  rebellious. 
It  seemed  to  resent  having  been  thus  disturbed  in  the  middle 
of  the  night.  As  long  as  there  had  been  compensation  in 
the  way  of  dainty  morsels  to  nibble,  it  was  perhaps  worth 
it,  but  now  it  would  prefer  to  lie  down  and  chew  the  cud 
in  peace. 

Bagga,  however,  persisted,  and  with  coaxing  and  scolding 
urged  on  her  little  charge. 

It  was  a  long  road,  but  at  last  they  reached  Borg. 

Quietly  as  possible  she  opened  the  gate  of  the  enclosure, 
it  would  never  do  to  rouse  the  dogs.  Then  she  stroked 
the  lamb  sadly  in  farewell,  her  tears  falling  on  its  woolly 
fleece,  and  thrust  it  through  the  gate,  which  she  closed  after  it. 

She  had  forgotten  to  take  her  garter  from  its  neck. 

As  she  turned  away  from  the  gate,  a  feeling  of  loneliness 
and  misery  overcame  her;  it  was  as  if  she  had  lost  the  one 
treasure  of  her  life — nothing  was  left  but  loneliness  and 
emptiness.  Then  gradually  she  grew  more  composed.  The 
dog  marked  her  trouble,  and  fawned  on  her;  she  came  to 
herself,  and  realized  that  it  was  time  to  return  home. 

She  stood  for  a  little,  gazing  with  wet  eyes  at  the  dark 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  219 

outline  of  the  homestead ;  there  slept  her  lover,  never  dream- 
ing she  was  near.  Surely,  surely  in  some  mysterious  way 
he  must  feel  that  she  was  there,  and  come  to  her?  Not  to 
speak  to  her,  no — that  he  should  ever  speak  seemed  to  her 
like  a  thing  so  distant  as  to  be  almost  unreal — an  entering 
into  paradise.  But  come  he  surely  must — if  only  that  they 
might  see  each  other — that  he  might  realize  how  she  loved 
him. 

But  she  must  go.  .  .  .  With  bowed  head  she  turned  in  the 
direction  of  home.  The  long  road  was  covered,  she  hardly 
knew  how,  and,  without  once  waking  to  conscious  thought 
of  the  way,  she  found  herself  in  the  house  once  more. 

Silently  she  undressed;  her  head  was  aching,  and  it  was 
long  before  she  could  sleep.  At  length  she  fell  into  a  heavy 
slumber. 

When  she  woke  next  morning  it  seemed  as  if  the  journey 
of  the  night  had  been  a  dream;  she  had  to  go  out  and  con- 
vince herself  that  the  lamb  was  really  gone. 

Once  sure,  however,  she  felt  an  indescribable  joy — so  near 
she  had  been  to  her  heart's  desire  that  night.  And  none 
to  know  of  it  but  God.  .  .  .  She  could  not  understand  now 
why  she  had  felt  sad  at  parting  with  the  lamb;  the  night 
stood  out  now  like  a  gleam  of  brightness  in  her  life. 

One  of  her  garters  was  missing — she  could  not  remember 
what  she  had  done  with  it.  Fallen  off  somewhere,  perhaps, 
and  lying  out  on  the  road.  It  would  be  hopeless  to  try  and 
find  it  now,  though,  among  all  the  rocks;  she  might  as  well 
give  it  up  for  lost. 

But  it  was  a  pity,  for  it  was  a  nice  one,  neatly  embroidered, 
and  with  her  name  worked  on  so  prettily.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHILE  Bagga  was  thus  busy  with  her  daydreams, 
Guest  the  One-eyed  was  deep  in  earnest  talk  with 
her  mother,  who  confided  to  him  the  story  of  her 
life — the  story  of  her  heart. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  well-to-do  farmer,  and  had  been 
married  against  her  will,  though  with  no  great  resistance  on 
her  part,  to  the  son  of  a  rich  landowner.  The  man  she  really 
loved  was  a  young  labourer  on  her  father's  place.  No  one 
knew  of  it,  and  the  man  himself  had  but  a  vague  idea;  she 
could  not  say  if  he  returned  the  feeling  or  not.  After  some 
six  months  of  married  life,  Fate — or  the  well-laid  plans  of 
her  lover  himself — brought  him  to  work  on  her  husband's 
farm.  And  now  began  a  time  of  sore  trial  for  her.  The 
young  man  had  become  aware  of  her  inclination,  and  made 
his  advances  boldly.  So  successfully  did  he  play  the  part 
of  broken-hearted  lover  that  she  fell  a  victim  to  his  persua- 
sion. So  much  Guest  the  One-eyed  was  able  to  gather  from 
the  widow's  own  confession;  she  did  not  spare  herself  in  the 
recital. 

She  had  already  borne  a  son — her  husband's  child.  Im- 
mediately after  having  given  way  to  her  lover,  she  had  en- 
deavoured to  persuade  him  to  go  with  her,  take  her  away  from 
the  place;  she  could  not  stay  with  her  husband  as  things 
were.  But  the  lover  was  quite  content  to  leave  all  as  it 
was;  indeed,  it  was  evident  that  he  preferred  to  have  her 
there.  Then  she  saw  through  him,  realized  the  true  nature 
of  his  feelings  towards  her,  and  confessed  everything  to  her 
husband.  The  latter  had,  after  a  violent  scene,  at  last  agreed 
to  forgive  her,  and  treated  her  kindly.  But  she  was  de- 
termined to  leave  him,  and  went  off  to  live  alone,  making  no 
claim  on  him  or  on  her  father  for  her  subsistence. 

220 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  221 

It  was  nineteen  years  ago  now.  At  first,  she  had  earned 
her  living  where  and  how  she  could — cleaning  fish  or  wash- 
ing wool.  Then  the  child  came,  and  she  found  it  impossible 
to  obtain  work  anywhere.  Finally,  she  had  settled  down  at 
Borg,  where  she  had  stayed  three  years.  In  spite  of  the 
kindness  with  which  she  was  treated  by  Ormarr  and  Runa, 
however,  she  found  herself  regarded  with  suspicion.  With 
her  small  savings,  and  some  help  from  Ormarr,  she  had 
just  been  able  to  rent  and  stock  her  little  holding,  and  had 
lived  there  now  with  her  daughter  for  nearly  fourteen 
years. 

Now,  life  was  pleasant  enough,  she  said.  And  Guest  the 
One-eyed  understood  that  she  had  grown  so  accustomed  to 
hard  work  and  scanty  fare  that  she  would  have  found  it 
hard  now  to  change  to  another  mode  of  life.  But  she  looked 
to  her  daughter's  upbringing  with  motherly  care,  and  her 
great  anxiety  was  the  girl's  future.  How  would  it  be  with 
her  when  she  went  out  into  the  world?  "Would  she  be  able 
to  live  down  her  mother's  past?  Would  God  in  His  mercy 
spare  her  the  consequences  of  her  mother's  sin? 

That  it  was  a  sin  she  understood  now;  now,  for  the  first 
time,  she  realized  how  unpardonable  her  act  had  been.  The 
consequences  might  yet  be  visited  upon  her  child.  And  her 
conscience  made  her  suffer ;  she  feared  at  times  that  the  agony 
of  her  remorse  would  drive  her  to  madness.  She  was  on  the 
edge  of  an  abyss ;  only  by  the  utmost  effort  could  she  preserve 
her  self-control. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  had  heard  many  secrets;  listened  to 
the  story  of  many  lives.  And  in  his  long  years  of  life  he 
had  learned  to  sift  the  facts  of  a  case,  to  find  out  truth  as 
much  from  what  was  left  unspoken  as  from  what  was  said. 
The  widow's  life  stood  out  clearly  to  his  mind's  eye  in  all 
its  detail. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"And  the  girl's  father,"  asked  Guest  at  last — "is  he  still 
living  near?" 

"No,"  answered  the  widow,  and  her  lips  tightened.  "He 
went  away  across  the  seas  soon  after  I  left  the  place.  Afraid, 


222  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

maybe,  that  there  might  be  trouble,  and  thought  it  best  to 
be  out  of  the  way." 

Again  there  was  a  pause. 

Then  said  Guest  the  One-eyed  quietly,  "You  are  troubled 
at  heart  by  the  thought  that  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  to  be 
visited  upon  the  children.  Do  not  let  that  weigh  too  heavily 
upon  you  now.  There  are  those  who  suffer  so  deeply  for 
their  own  sins  that  they  atone  for  them  in  life,  and  more. 
You  are  one  of  these.  I  am  not  speaking  empty  words  to  you 
for  comfort's  sake,  but  the  truth.  You  can  trust  me.  God 
has  granted  me  the  power  to  give  my  fellow-men  in  need  the 
knowledge  of  remission  of  their  sins,  as  far  as  may  be  in 
knowledge  of  the  truth.  I  have  sinned,  and  my  debt  is  not 
yet  paid — but  my  sin  was  greater  than  yours  or  that  of  any 
other  I  have  met.  But  the  Lord  God  is  merciful,  and  I 
believe  that  He  will  grant  me  peace  at  last.  At  last,  in  death. 
And  when  that  comes,  I  can  say  with  truth  that  my  life, 
by  God 's  grace,  has  been  a  happy  one. ' ' 

The  woman  looked  at  him,  with  the  same  dull  hopelessness 
in  her  eyes. 

"How  can  you  know  that  I  have  sufficiently  atoned  for 
my  sin — you,  who  have  known  me  only  since  yesterday,  and 
heard  no  more  than  I  have  told  you?" 

Guest  the  One-eyed  smiled,  and  a  strange  look  of  far-seeing 
wisdom  lit  up  his  heavy  face. 

"I  believe  that  the  Lord  has  sent  me  to  you  for  your  com- 
fort in  need — that  the  Lord  has  given  me,  and  to  no  other,  a 
sign  to  make  you  sure.  I  am  no  prophet,  and  I  do  not  profess 
to  tell  what  will  or  will  not  come.  But — shall  I  tell  you 
a  secret  ?  Promise  me,  first,  that  you  will  not  act  in  any  way 
to  bring  about  that  which  shall  come  in  God's  good  time." 

The  woman  grasped  his  hand  and  nodded.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  intently  on  his  face,  as  if  striving  to  read  his  words  ere 
they  were  spoken. 

"Your  daughter  will  be  the  happiest  woman  in  this  land. 
She  is  loved  by  the  purest  soul  I  have  ever  looked  into  through 
human  eyes."  He  turned  away  for  a  moment,  and  murmurd, 
as  if  to  himself :  "I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  for  Thy  great  mercy." 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  223 

Then,  addressing  the  widow  again,  he  went  on:  "And  she, 
on  her  part,  returns  his  love  with  all  her  innocent  heart. ' ' 

The  woman's  face  darkened. 

"Impossible,"  she  said.  "There  is  no  young  man  she 
knows  here  at  all.  I  do  not  believe  she  has  ever  spoken  to 
one." 

"Remember  your  promise,  and  trust  me  now.  The  girl 
is  in  her  heart — and  in  the  book  of  Fate — betrothed  and 
wedded  to  the  one  I  speak  of.  Give  time,  and  see." 

"If  I  could  believe  you  now.  ..." 

"You  can — you  must.  It  is  long  since  these  lips  framed 
a  lie — never  in  the  life  of  Guest  the  One-eyed  have  they 
spoken  falsely." 

The  widow  looked  at  him  earnestly,  doubt  and  hope  strug- 
gling in  her  mind.  Guest  the  One-eyed  leaned  towards  her, 
his  face  deathly  pale,  and  whispered: 

"He  of  whom  I  speak — he,  too,  was  born  as  the  fruit  of 
a  sin — but  a  sin  that  is,  or  will  be  soon,  I  trust,  atoned  for. ' ' 

The  woman  was  weeping  now,  but  they  were  tears  of  relief 
rather  than  despair.  "I  cannot  fathom  it  all,"  she  mur- 
mured. ' '  But  I  believe  you. ' ' 

Guest  the  One-eyed  smiled  sadly,  and  cast  a  grateful  glance 
to  heaven. 

•••r«:  IA  MI  >1 

(u* 

Later  in  the  day,  Guest  the  One-eyed  became  feverish,  and 
the  pain  in  his  shoulder  became  acute.  He  could  not  hide 
the  fact  that  he  was  suffering,  and  the  widow  wished  him  to 
go  to  bed  at  once  and  remain  there  for  the  present.  But  he 
obstinately  refused  even  to  stay  in  the  house. 

"I  have  farther  yet  to  go,"  he  said,  with  his  sad,  kindly 
smile. 

As  he  was  leaving,  he  asked  suddenly: 
"Was  there  not  once  a  priest  here,  Sera  Ketill?" 
The  widow  looked  up  at  him  in  surprise.     Then  she  cast 
down  her  eyes  and  frowned. 

"His  name  is  accursed  in  this  house,"  she  said — "as  are 
all  those  who  have  deceived  under  the  mask  of  love." 


224  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

The  man  paled  at  her  words.  For  a  moment  he  seemed 
stunned.  Then,  taking  up  his  sack  and  staff,  he  limped  from 
the  room. 

The  woman  hurried  after  him. 

"Are  you  ill?"  she  asked. 

"No.    I  am  going  now." 

"But — you  have  not  said  good-bye!" 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Guest  the  One-eyed.  "But  you  have 
said  that  which  struck  me  to  the  heart." 

The  woman  looked  at  him  blankly.  Then,  giving  up  all 
attempt  at  finding  out  the  mystery,  she  asked : 

"Will  you  not  leave  some  good  word  after  you? — some 
word  to  help?" 

Guest  the  One-eyed  looked  at  her.    Then  he  said : 

"Let  your  heart  be  open  to  Love  and  closed  to  Hatred; 
and  let  your  lips  be  quick  to  bless,  but  slow  to  curse. ' ' 

"God  be  with  you,"  said  the  woman,  her  voice  quivering 
on  the  verge  of  tears.  "God's  blessing  go  with  you  where 
you  may  go." 

And,  turning  hurriedly  to  hide  her  shame  and  emotion,  she 
re-entered  the  house. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  limped  painfully  along  beside  the 
stream.  Suddenly  he  remembered  the  girl,  whom  he  had 
forgotten  in  the  trouble  of  his  soul,  and  turned  to  seek  her. 
But  at  that  moment  she  came  running  towards  him. 

The  girl  stopped,  breathless,  and  looked  at  him  reproach- 
fully. "Would  you  have  gone  without  a  word  to  me?" 
she  asked. 

"I  had  just  remembered,"  he  said  softly.  "But  for  a  mo- 
ment my  soul  was  not  my  own." 

She  took  his  sack  and  put  her  arm  in  his. 

"I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as  I  may,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  CALM,  sunny  day.  The  old  man  trudged  along  the 
valley,  leaning  on  the  girl's  arm.  Her  golden  hair 
and  his  white  locks  shone  like  haloes  round  their 
heads. 

Now  and  again  a  flock  of  ptarmigan  rose  at  their  feet. 
Already  the  birds  had  shed  their  brown  plumage  and  donned 
their  winter  coats  of  white. 

It  seemed  as  if  summer  were  loth  to  bid  farewell.  The 
sea  was  calm,  and  the  river  flowed  smoothly  on  its  way;  the 
lakes  lay  still  as  mirrors,  reflecting  the  hills  around  and  the 
blue  sky  above.  No  sound  was  heard  from  the  homesteads 
but  the  occasional  neigh  of  a  horse  or  the  barking  of  a  dog. 
Even  the  rocks  seemed  less  bleak  and  bare  than  usual,  lapped 
as  they  were  now  in  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun.  All  seemed 
intent  on  looking  its  best  at  the  last — the  last  it  might  be,  for 
another  day  might  bring  cold  winds  and  wintry  gales,  usher- 
ing in  snow  and  ice. 

The  old  man  and  the  girl  had  gone  some  distance  on  their 
way  when  they  came  to  a  grassy  slope  that  seemed  inviting 
them  to  rest  and  look  out  over  the  scene.  Somewhat  shyly, 
the  girl  took  out  a  packet  of  food  and  offered  him. 

"Now,  that  is  your  breakfast  you  have  packed  up  here," 
said  the  old  man  as  he  opened  it. 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  said  the  girl  bravely,  but  the  effort 
was  plain  to  be  seen. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  stroked  her  head  and  began  to  eat; 
he  succeeded,  however,  in  persuading  her  to  share  with  him. 

When  they  had  finished,  he  asked  her: 

"Will  you  not  turn  back  now?  It  is  a  long  way  home 
already." 

She  looked  at  him  pleadingly.  "Oh,  I  will  run  all  the  way 

225 


226  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

home.  I  am  never  tired — and  I  should  like  to  see  you  within 
sight  of  the  next  homestead." 

"I  am  glad  to  have  you — but  we  had  better  go  on.  We 
must  not  lose  more  time  sitting  here." 

He  made  no  motion  to  rise,  however,  and  for  a  while  they 
sat  in  silence.  Then  he  asked : 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  one  Sera  Ketill,  once  priest  of  this 
parish,  many  years  ago?" 

The  girl  burst  into  tears,  and  sat  crying  quietly.  He  put 
no  further  question,  but  after  a  little  said  quietly : 

' '  Have  I  hurt  you,  child  ?     I  would  not  have  done  that. ' ' 

' '  That — that  was  his  father, ' '  she  answered,  sobbing.  ' '  Did 
you  not  know?" 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  he  answered. 

"And  they  all  say  unkind  things  and  hate  him,"  she  went 
on,  still  sobbing  passionately.  ' '  He  drowned  himself  because 
he  had  been  so  wicked  he  couldn't  bear  it — all  the  sorrow  that 
came  after.  Threw  himself  over  the  cliff,  they  say;  he  was 
seen  there  the  night  after  his  father  died  in  the  church. 

"And  he  left  a  will  giving  all  he  had  to  the  poor,  but  they 
say  it  was  only  to  make  them  sorry  for  the  hard  things  they 
had  said,  and  pray  for  his  soul.  And  they  never  would  for- 
give him,  and  they  say  the  Evil  One  has  taken  him,  because 
the  body  was  never  found.  Isn  't  it  cruel !  And  all  that  was 
twenty  years  ago,  and  all  that  time  no  one  has  ever  thought 
kindly  of  him  once — only  me,  and  I  couldn't  help  it.  His 
father  ...  I  don't  know  if  he  ever  thinks  of  him.  And  yet 
he  must,  since  it  was  his  father  ..." 

Gradually  the  girl  became  more  composed.  Her  compan- 
ion sat  quietly,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  tear-stained  face  towards  him  and 
asked : 

"Do  you  hate  him,  too?" 

Guest  the  One-eyed  looked  her  straight  in  the  face  as  he 
answered : 

"For  twenty  years  my  life  has  been  spent  in  seeking  God's 
mercy  and  forgiveness  towards  him." 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  227 

The  girl's  eyes  lit  with  pleasure. 

' '  Then  you  knew  him  ?    And  were  you  fond  of  him  ? ' ' 

The  man  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said: 

"Sera  KetilT  is  not  dead." 

"Oh,  thank   God  for  that!     Is  it  really  true?" 

"God  bless  you,  child,  that  you  are  glad  to  hear  it.    Yes, 

it  is  true.     He  is  yet  a  wanderer  on  earth,  and  penitent." 
' '  Is  he  very  far  away  ?     Shall  I  ever  see  him  ? ' ' 
"Not  very  far  away.    But  ask  no  more  just  now." 
They  walked  on  until  a  fertile  valley  lay  before  them. 
Close  by  was  a  small  farm;  other  homesteads  were  scat- 
tered about  not  far  off. 

The  old  man  slung  his  sack  over  his  shoulder. 

"Shall  I  never  see  you  again?"  asked  the  girl,  her  eyes 

filling  with  tears. 

"You  like  me,  then?" 

"I  love  you.     Every  one  loves  and  blesses  you.     If  I  had 

a  father,  I  should  wish  him  to  be  like  you. ' ' 
"But — I  am  only  a  beggar." 
' '  There  is  no  shame  in  that, ' '  answered  the  girl  in  surprise, 

"for  one  like  you." 

' '  Shall  I  bring  Sera  Ketill  your  greeting  if  I  see  him  ? ' ' 
"Yes,  and  tell  him  that  I  pray  for  him  always." 
"Do  you  think  you  can  get  home  now  before  dark?" 
"Yes,  indeed;   I  am  not  tired   at   all  now.     Good-bye." 

And  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  "and  God  be  with  you." 

The  girl  hurried  off  in  the  direction  of  home,  and  Guest 

the  One-eyed  turned  towards  the  farm. 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  the  morning  after  Bagga's  expedition  with  the 
lamb,  Ormarr  was  up  and  about  before  any  of  the 
others  at  Borg. 

it  was  his  custom  to  rise  early.  His  nights  were  often 
restless,  and  it  was  only  after  he  had  been  up  and  out  a  little 
that  he  felt  refreshed.  The  work  drove  sad  thoughts  from 
his  mind. 

He  was  not  happy,  though  he  would  have  found  it  hard 
to  say  what  was  wrong.  He  could  not  honestly  declare  that 
he  regretted  having  given  up  the  path  of  fame  that  once  had 
stood  open  to  him  through  his  music. 

In  the  old  days,  whenever  he  had  touched  his  violin,  the 
contrast  between  the  harmony  of  music  and  the  discord  of 
the  world  as  it  was  had  wrought  on  him  so  strongly  that  he 
had  been  driven  to  seek  solitude.  His  sensitive  soul  craved 
rest,  quivering  as  it  did  under  the  harshness  of  reality.  It 
was  not  the  desire  for  appreciation  of  his  art,  but  the  longing 
for  harmony  in  life  that  he  felt  most  deeply. 

Here,  on  the  farm,  existence  was  rendered  tolerable  by 
the  fact  that  he  had  to  be  constantly  at  work;  the  manage- 
ment of  the  estate  gave  him  much  to  do,  in  addition  to 
which  the  affairs  of  the  parish  were  almost  wholly  entrusted 
to  his  care.  And  the  affection  and  respect  of  his  people, 
which  he  could  not  but  perceive,  served  largely  to  aid  him  in 
the  constant  struggle  within. 

The  people  loved  him,  not  only  because  he  helped  them 
in  every  possible  way,  and  never  refused  his  aid  and  counsel, 
but  also  because  they  felt  that  in  him  they  had  a  true  leader. 
They  saw  the  firmness  of  character,  the  stern  will,  which  he 
exercised  in  his  own  life,  and  it  gave  them  courage. 

Ormarr  invariably  began  the  day  by  a  visit  of  inspection 

228 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  229 

round  the  farm  to  see  that  all  was  in  order.  The  animals 
allowed  to  go  loose  about  the  place  were  carefully  looked  to 
each  morning  to  see  that  they  had  come  to  no  harm  during 
the  night. 

One  of  the  first  things  to  catch  his  eye  this  morning  was 
0rlygur's  lamb.  He  noticed  the  black  head  at  once,  and  as 
he  approached,  the  animal  rose  up,  bleating  pitifully. 
Evidently  it  was  in  distress  about  something.  As  soon  as  he 
had  caught  it,  he  noticed  the  blue  ribbon  at  its  neck,  looked 
at  it,  and  found  the  name  "Snebiorg"  woven  in  red  letters. 
He  was  about  to  take  it  off,  but  changed  his  mind  and  let 
the  lamb  go.  There  were  not  two  women  of  that  name  in 
the  parish.  And  the  lamb  had  got  into  the  enclosure  dur- 
ing the  night,  though  the  gate  was  fastened.  Ormarr  was 
not  quite  clear  in  his  own  mind  as  to  what  had  happened, 
but  at  any  rate,  if  the  ribbon  were  intended  for  any  one,  it 
was  not  for  him. 

He  thought  it  over  for  a  while,  and  then  went  into  the 
house  to  wake  0rlygur. 

"Your  lamb  has  come  back.     You  will  find  it  outside." 

0rlygur  was  out  of  bed  in  an  instant.  His  father  hesitated, 
as  if  deliberating  whether  to  say  more,  but  after  a  moment's 
reflection  left  the  room. 

0rlygur  threw  on  his  clothes  and  hurried  out — there  was 
the  lamb,  sure  enough.  But — it  did  not  recognize  him. 
Evidently,  in  the  course  of  the  summer,  it  had  forgotten  him. 

The  ribbon  at  its  neck  caught  his  eye  at  once,  and  he  bent 
down  to  examine  it.  At  first  sight  of  the  name  he  started 
in  astonishment,  and  let  go  his  hold.  Then,  catching  the 
animal  again,  he  took  the  ribbon  from  its  neck  with  trembling 
fingers. 

The  lamb  was  let  to  run  as  it  pleased ;  0rlygur  stood  with 
the  garter  in  his  hand,  stroking  it  softly.  His  heart  beat 
fast,  his  head  was  giddy.  Tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  his 
thought  was  all  confused,  but  there  was  a  great  joy  at  his 
heart. 

He  sat  down  on  the  wall  of  the  enclosure;  the  sun  was 
just  rising.  Never  before  had  he  seen  such  a  glorious  opening 


230  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

to  any  day.  The  piece  of  ribbon  in  his  hand  made  this  day 
one  beyond  all  others;  it  called  him  from  his  sleep  to  be 
king  in  a  beautiful  world. 

He  realized  now  that,  though  he  had  felt  sure  before,  there 
had  nevertheless  been  something  lacking — and  here  it  was. 
All  was  certain  now.  And  the  joyous  possibilities  of  the 
future  seemed  unbounded.  He  sat  there  now  for  hours,  deep 
in  his  dreams,  twining  the  ribbon  round  his  fingers,  one  after 
another — none  must  be  forgotten — and  at  last  round  his  neck. 

Suddenly  he  started  at  the  sight  of  his  father  approaching, 
and  put  away  the  ribbon  hastily.  He  got  up  in  some  embar- 
rassment; it  occurred  to  him  suddenly  that  Ormarr  might 
perhaps  have  noticed  the  ribbon  himself  at  first.  The  thought 
left  him  utterly  at  a  loss. 

Ormarr  came  up  and  sat  down  quietly,  as  if  unaware  of 
anything  unsusal. 

"A  fortunate  thing  about  the  lamb,"  he  said.  "Coming 
back  unharmed  like  that.  All  sorts  of  accidents  might  have 
happened  to  it." 

"Yes,"  said  0rlygur,  trying  to  speak  calmly. 

"Have  you  time  to  help  me  today  with  the  mangers  in 
the  big  stable? — or  were  you  thinking  of  going  somewhere 
else?" 

0rlygur  felt  suddenly  that  it  was  most  urgent  he  should 
go  somewhere  else,  though  he  had  no  clear  idea  as  to  where. 
There  was  something  in  Ormarr 's  voice  that  seemed  to  suggest 
he  was  not  expected  to  remain  at  home. 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  Ormarr  sat  waiting  for  an 
answer,  but  without  impatience,  as  if  realizing  something  of 
wnat  was  passing  in  the  young  man's  mind. 

When  0rlygur  spoke,  it  was  with  a  calmness  that  surprised 
himself. 

"Yes — I  was  going  for  a  walk  .  .  .  over  towards  Bolli. 
I  thought  of  giving  the  lamb — to  the  widow  there.  She 
would  be  glad  of  it,  no  doubt ;  then  she  could  kill  one  of  her 
own  sheep  instead." 

Ormarr  apparently  found  nothing  in  this  proposal  beyond 
an  ordinary  act  of  charity ;  he  simply  said : 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  231 

"Yes,  give  it  to  her.  Or  perhaps  to  her  daughter.  Then 
you  may  be  sure  it  would  be  well  looked  after." 

1  'That  is  true." 

0rlygur  had  now  completely  regained  his  composure,  but 
was  still  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  understand  his  foster-father's 
attitude  in  the  matter. 

"You  can  bring  them  greeting  from  me,"  said  Ormarr,  as 
he  rose  and  walked  away. 

Ormarr  was  both  glad  and  sorry.  But  he  knew  it  was  best 
not  to  let  0rlygur's  love  affairs  become  a  matter  of  dissension 
between  them.  They  of  Borg  had  need  to  hold  together  well ; 
he  had  made  his  sacrifice — all  that  remained  now  was  to  pre- 
pare his  wife. 

When  0rlygur  arrived  at  Bolli,  with  the  lamb  trotting 
contentedly  behind  him,  he  found  the  widow  outside  the 
gate. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  then  at  the  lamb.  She  had  noticed 
that  morning  that  it  was  missing,  but  had  merely  thought 
it  had  been  found  and  taken  away  earlier  in  the  day. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said  in  answer  to  his  greeting. 
"Your  lamb  seems  loth  to  leave  us." 

Bagga  had  told  her  mother  before  that  the  lamb  always 
came  back  every  time  she  had  essayed  to  drive  it  off  with 
other  stray  sheep. 

' '  It  seems  so, ' '  0rlygur  agreed.  ' '  Can  I  have  a  word  with 
Snebiorg  ? ' '  There  was  a  lump  in  his  throat ;  he  could  hardly 
speak  the  name. 

"She  is  not  at  home  just  now.  "We  had  a  stranger  here 
last  night,  and  she  has  gone  out  to  see  him  a  little  on  his  way. 
How  far,  I  do  not  know.  Can  you  guess  who  the  stranger 
was?" 

"I  think  so.     Guest  the  One-eyed,  was  it  not?" 

' '  Oh — then  you  knew  he  was  h  ere  ? " 

"Yes.  I  was  the  first  to  meet  him.  When  I  left  him 
yesterday  he  was  on  his  way  to  you." 

"Why  did  you  not  come  with  him,  then,  and  fetch  your 
lamb  ?  When  did  you  fetch  it  t " 


232  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"I  did  not  fetch  it  at  all." 

"But — it  was  here  last  night,  and  this  morning  it  was 
gone. ' ' 

Suddenly  0rlygur  understood  what  had  happened.  And 
he  flushed  at  the  thought. 

"That  may  be  so,"  he  answered  vaguely.  He  hardly  knew 
what  to  say. 

The  widow  looked  at  him,  as  if  somewhat  offended  at  his 
tone. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down  for  a  while?" 

"Thanks,"  said  0rlygur.    And  they  went  indoors. 

He  had  never  been  inside  the  house  before.  The  little 
room  was  furnished  with  two  beds;  he  looked  immediately 
at  the  one  which  was  evidently  Bagga's.  Her  hat  hung  on 
a  nail  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  her  knife  and  fork  were  in  a 
little  rack  close  by.  On  a  shelf  lay  her  Bible  and  Prayer 
Book,  with  some  other  volumes.  He  dared  not  take  them 
up  to  see  what  they  were — they  looked  like  collections  of  the 
Sagas.  The  bed  was  neatly  made,  and  a  knitted  coverlet 
of  many  colours  spread  over. 

He  sat  down  on  the  other  bed  with  a  strange  sense  of  being 
an  intruder  here.  His  thoughts  were  vague,  but  he  was 
dimly  conscious  that  the  place  was  filled  with  the  spirit  and 
life  of  the  girl  herself.  Here  she  lived;  the  little  trifles  in 
the  room  were  things  she  daily  touched. 

The  widow,  entering  behind  him,  invited  him  to  sit  on  the 
other  bed.  He  did  so,  feeling  dazed,  and  seating  himself 
uncomfortably  on  the  very  edge.  The  widow  suggested  that 
he  need  not  be  afraid  of  lying  down  if  he  were  tired,  but  he 
declined  the  offer  with  some  abruptness. 

The  woman  sat  knitting,  and  for  a  long  time  neither  spoke, 
only  glancing  across  at  each  other  from  time  to  time. 

The  widow  was  not  altogether  pleased  with  this  visit.  She 
was  at  a  loss  to  think  what  0rlygur  a  Borg  could  have  to  say 
to  her  daughter,  but  as  he  did  not  speak,  she  was  not  inclined 
to  ask  him.  Also,  she  remembered  her  promise  to  Guest  the 
One-eyed  the  day  before. 

They  sat  thus  all  day,  exchanging  only  an  occasional  word. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  233 

Once  the  widow  went  out  and  made  some  coffee,  which  they 
drank  in  silence. 

At  length  she  remarked : 

"You  are  very  patient  to  wait  so  long." 

"Yes,  "he  replied. 

A  little  later  she  brought  him  some  food  and  a  drink  of 
milk.  She  herself  had  eaten  her  meal  in  the  larder,  as  was 
her  wont.  While  he  ate,  she  sat  with  her  knitting,  glancing 
at  her  guest  now  and  again. 

"Bagga  must  soon  be  here." 

0rlygur  nodded. 

The  widow  pointed  to  the  bookshelf.  "You  might  take  a 
book,  if  you  care  to,  and  pass  the  time.  You  must  be  tired 
of  waiting." 

' '  I  am  not  tired  of  waiting, ' '  said  0rlygur. 

Dusk  was  falling  when  Bagga  at  last  returned.  As  soon 
as  her  mother  heard  her  footsteps  outside,  she  rose  and  left  the 
room.  0rlygur  remained  seated.  Something  was  about  to 
happen — something  wonderful,  incredible,  beyond  his  control. 
He  was  to  see  her — hear  her  voice,  perhaps — even  speak  to 
her  himself.  He  felt  unable  to  move.  The  thing  must  hap- 
pen. "  And  then — what  then  ? 

.    The  widow  exchanged  a  hasty  greeting  with  her  daughter, 
and  told  her  that  one  was  waiting  to  speak  with  her. 

Bagga  was  overcome  with  confusion,  a  wave  of  warmth 
swept  through  her  body,  and  her  hands  grew  moist. 

' '  Me — to  speak  with  me — who  is  it,  then  ? ' ' 

"Go  in  and  see." 

The  widow  disappeared  into  the  kitchen. 

Bagga  could  hardly  find  strength  to  walk  the  few  steps 
through  into  the  room.  When  at  length  she  entered  and 
saw  0rlygur  standing  there,  she  stood  and  stared  at  him  with- 
out a  word.  0rlygur,  too,  was  unable  to  speak. 

She  offered  her  hand,  and  he  took  it,  but  the  greeting  was 
equally  awkward  on  both  sides.  At  last  0rlygur  plucked  up 
courage  to  speak; 

"Will  you  have  my  lamb?"  he  asked.  "I  have  brought 
it  with  me." 


234  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

The  girl  smiled,  but  did  not  look  up.  "Thank  you,"  she 
said  simply. 

For  a  long  time  they  stood  facing  each  other  without  a 
word,  hardly  daring  to  breathe.  0rlygur  felt  he  had  much 
to  say,  but  could  find  no  words.  At  last  he  offered  his  hand 
again. 

"Good-bye,  "he  said. 

She  took  it  hesitatingly,  but  this  time  their  clasp  was  one 
of  lingering  affection.  They  stood  breathing  heavily;  then 
suddenly  she  leaned  forward  with  her  forehead  against  his 
shoulder;  her  hot  cheek  touched  his.  For  a  moment  he 
pressed  her  to  him,  and  passed  his  hand  caressingly  over 
her  hair. 

With  a  sigh  she  slipped  from  his  arms,  pressed  his  hand 
once  more,  and  turned  away.  Then  quietly  0rlygur  left  the 
room. 

He  went  out  of  the  house  without  taking  leave  of  the 
widow.  The  latter,  returning  a  little  later  to  the  room,  asked 
if  he  had  gone. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl. 

"What  did  he  come  for?" 

"He  gave  me  his  lamb." 

"Nothing  more?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"Does  he  love  you?" 

Bagga  turned  her  face  away.     "Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"And  you  love  him  too?" 

The  girl  burst  into  tears.    "Yes,  mother." 

The  widow  took  her  daughter  in  her  arms.  "God's  bless- 
ing, my  child.  No  need  to  be  sorry  for  that.  By  the  look 
of  him,  he  is  not  one  to  change." 


CHAPTER  XI 

GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  felt  both  ill  and  tired 
when,  after  bidding  farewell  to  Bagga,  he  limped  up 
towards  the  farm. 

An  old  man,  evidently  the  master  of  the  place,  was  busy 
with  some  men  thatching  a  hayrick  with  slabs  of  turf.  The 
turf  lay  rolled  up  and  set  in  piles  about  on  the  ground,  a 
couple  of  hundred  rolls,  perhaps,  in  all.  It  had  been  a  labori- 
ous task  to  cut  the  pieces  thin  and  even  at  the  edge;  the 
strips  were  about  ten  feet  long.  Two  men  were  busy  on  the 
stack,  preparing  it  for  the  roof,  the  highest  point  carefully 
set  so  as  to  give  an  even  slope  on  all  sides.  Others  were  lift- 
ing the  rolls,  taking  great  care  to  avoid  a  break.  The  farmer 
himself  did  but  little  of  the  work,  being  chiefly  occupied  with 
looking  on  and  giving  orders. 

The  arrival  of  a  stranger  caused  a  momentary  pause  in  the 
work.  Those  on  the  ground  gathered  round  him,  and  the 
two  men  on  the  stack  leaned  over  to  see. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  farmer  curtly. 

"A  beggar,"  answered  the  newcomer,  seating  himself  on 
one  of  the  rolls  of  turf. 

"I  thought  as  much,"  grumbled  the  man.  "Can't  you 
sit  on  the  ground,  instead  of  spoiling  my  turf?"  And,  turn- 
ing angrily  to  the  men,  he  shouted : 

"Well,  what  is  there  to  stare  at?     Get  to  your  work." 

Guest  the  One-eyed  sat  down,  and  for  a  while  was  left 
to  himself.  A  dog  came  trotting  up,  sniffed  at  him,  and 
curled  up  dog-fashion  at  liis  feet,  apparently  satisfied  of 
being  in  decent  company. 

At  length  the  farmer  turned  to  him  again. 

"Well,  old  Greybeard,  what  news  from  anywhere?" 

"There's  little  news  I  can  tell." 

235 


236  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"I  daresay.  All  you  think  of  is  the  meals  you  get — in 
other  folks'  kitchens." 

"There's  many  things  a  man  can  think  of.  Will  you  give 
me  shelter  for  the  night?" 

"I've  no  beds  for  lazy  vagabonds.  But  you  can  sleep  in 
the  barn  if  you  like,  though  I  warn  you  it's  draughty.  I 
take  it  you  can  do  some  tricks  or  tell  a  story  or  something 
in  return?" 

Guest  the  One-eyed  smiled  and,  looking  up  at  him,  said: 

"Have  you  ever  heard  the  story  of  the  rich  man  and 
Lazarus?" 

The  farmer  turned  pale  with  rage.  "You  cursed  bundle 
of  rags!"  he  shouted.  "You  dare  ...  I'll  have  you  taken 
up  before  the  sheriff  for  begging  if  you  don't  mind  your 
words ! ' ' 

The  men  looking  on  smiled.  The  local  authority  was  Or- 
marr  a  Borg,  and  all  knew  there  would  be  little  gained  by 
an  angry  man  who  came  to  him  demanding  the  punishment 
of  some  poor  wanderer  for  begging.  It  would,  indeed,  be 
about  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  the  culprit  himself. 

"What  is  your  name?"  demanded  the  farmer,  striding 
towards  him  with  a  threatening  mien. 

"I  am  called  Guest  the  One-eyed,"  answered  the  old  man, 
with  his  quiet  smile. 

The  farmer  was  taken  aback.  ' '  Guest  the  One-eyed !  Im- 
possible. He  never  comes  this  way.  Guest  the  One-eyed.  ..." 

He  looked  at  the  beggar  again,  shifted  his  feet,  and  stood 
in  some  confusion.  "God's  blessing,"  he  stammered  out  at 
last.  "Forgive  me — I  did  not  know.  Come — come  up  to 
the  house  with  me. ' ' 

And  clumsily  he  helped  the  wanderer  to  rise;  his  hands 
were  little  used  to  helping  others. 

"Let  me  take  your  sack,"  he  said. 

"Nay — a  beggar  carries  his  own,"  answered  Guest  the 
One-eyed,  and  hoisted  it  on  his  back.  Then  suddenly  he 
smiled  and,  swinging  down  the  sack  once  more,  handed  it 
to  the  farmer,  who  took  it  as  if  it  were  a  favour  granted  him. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  glanced  at  him  mischievously. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  237 

"  'Tis  strange  to  see  you  with  a  beggar's  pouch.  None 
would  have  thought  you  could  ever  come  to  that." 

The  farmer  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  men,  and  was 
about  to  make  an  angry  retort,  but  restrained  himself  and 
gave  a  forced  laugh.  Then  he  said: 

"If  I  were  to  fill  the  sack  with  more  than  you  could  carry 
—what  then?" 

"Then  I  should  let  it  lie." 

The  farmer  was  evidently  anxious  to  make  much  of  his 
visitor;  the  latter,  however,  seemed  to  care  little  for  his 
hospitality,  and  would  not  even  accept  the  bed  that  was 
offered  him.  The  farmer  assured  him  that  it  was  a  bed  re- 
served for  personages  of  distinction ;  bishops  and  high  officials 
had  lain  in  it.  But  Guest  the  One-eyed  preferred  to  sleep 
in  the  barn,  and  all  that  the  farmer  could  do  was  to  have 
the  cracks  in  the  walls  stopped  as  far  as  possible,  and  a  fresh 
layer  of  hay  laid  over  the  rotting  stuff  that  strewed  the  floor. 

Before  retiring,  the  beggar  brought  up  the  subject  of  Sera 
Ketill. 

"That  scoundrel!"  cried  the  farmer  angrily.  "Ay,  a 
scoundrel  he  was."  And  a  murmur  from  those  around 
showed  that  he  had  voiced  the  general  feeling.  "He  duped 
them  all.  Not  a  man  but  was  on  his  side.  I  remember  him, 
and  his  lying  sermons  and  his  talk — and  I  was  no  wiser  than 
the  rest,  to  doubt  my  old  friend.  0rlygur  a  Borg,  he  was  a 
true  man,  and  Sera  Ketill  that  killed  him — his  own  father 
...  I  shan't  forget!  And  his  poor  wife,  the  Danish  Lady 
at  Hof — ruined  for  life.  Twenty  years  now  she's  lived  at 
Borg,  and  never  got  back  to  sense  nor  wit.  'Tis  a  comfort 
to  think  he'll  suffer  for  it  all,  or  there's  no  justice  in  heaven. 
The  Devil  must  have  marked  him  from  the  first — and  took 
and  kept  him,  and  best  he  should.  If  I  met  Sera  Ketill  at 
the  gates  of  Paradise,  I'd  turn  and  go  another  way." 

And  the  farmer  laughed,  pleased  with  his  own  wit  and 
confident  of  his  own  salvation. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  had  listened  with  pale  face  to  the  out- 
burst of  hatred  and  scorn.  At  last  he  rose  heavily  to  his  feet 
and  said; 


238  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"It  is  time  a  weary  man  went  to  his  rest." 

The  farmer  went  with  him  to  the  barn. 

"If  you  will  sleep  here,"  he  said.  "Though  why  you 
should,  with  a  fine  bed  waiting,  I  can't  see." 

"  'Tis  best  to  seek  a  place  that's  not  above  one's  deserts," 
said  the  other  mildly.  And  he  added,  "Though,  for  some, 
it  may  be  hard  to  find." 

[••  K  X  (•:  >'  !••  '• 

Left  to  himself,  the  wanderer  lay  staring  into  the  dark- 
ness. And  his  lips  moved  in  an  inaudible  prayer. 

"My  God,  my  God — if  only  I  might  dare  to  hope  for  for- 
giveness at  the  last ;  only  one  gleam  of  Thy  mercy  to  lighten 
my  heart.  I  am  weighed  down  with  the  burden  of  my  sin, 
and  long  has  been  my  penance,  but  what  is  all  against  the 
evil  I  have  done?  Yet  I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  I  alone  am 
let  to  suffer;  that  Thy  wrath  has  not  been  visited  on  that 
innocent  child." 

During  the  night  his  fever  increased.  He  could  not  sleep, 
and  lay  tossing  uneasily  from  side  to  side,  murmuring  often 
to  himself: 

"Lord,  I  feel  now  that  Death  is  near.  Good  that  it  comes 
at  last,  and  yet  I  fear  it.  What  will  Death  mean  for  me? 
Some  hell  more  terrible  than  I  have  lived  through  all  these 
years?  Thy  will  be  done!  It  will  not  be  tonight,  I  think. 
Another  day,  and  then  .  .  .  Death.  .  .  .'  Lord,  Thy  will  be 
done!" 

He  lapsed  into  a  state  of  drowsy  helplessness,  murmuring 
still  to  himself : 

"Lord,  Lord  .  .  .  two  children  were  granted  me  of  Thy 
grace.  And  to  the  one  was  given  Thy  peace  in  death;  the 
other  has  found  happiness  in  life.  ...  I  thank  Thee, 
Lord " 

He  lay  bathed  in  perspiration ;  dust  and  fragments  of  hay 
clung  to  his  face  and  hands. 

"Two  Women  .  .  .  Lord,  forgive  me.  .  .  .  Mercy, 
Lord.  .  .  ." 

He  flung  himself  over  on  his  side  and  hid  his  face. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  239 

"Father,  how  often  have  I  sinned  against  Thee!  And 
knowing  my  sin,  yet  hardening  my  heart.  Even  then  I  suf- 
fered, but  I  would  not  heed,  and  persevered  in  sin.  Forgive 
me,  Lord." 

For  a  while  he  lay  still,  then  turned  again.  He  strove  to 
raise  himself,  but  his  strength  failed  him,  and,  sinking  back, 
he  cried  aloud: 

"Forgive  me,  Lord — forgive  me,  Lord.  ..." 

His  words  were  lost  in  the  darkness,  and  he  lapsed  into 
unconsciousness. 

He  woke  some  hours  later,  exhausted  and  parched  with 
thirst.  But  he  could  not  rise  to  seek  for  water,  and  at  length 
he  sank  into  a  restless,  feverish  sleep. 

Early  next  morning  he  was  awakened  by  the  entry  of  the 
farmer.  At  first  he  hardly  realized  where  he  was.  He  was 
ill,  with  a  racking  pain  in  his  head.  But  he  strove  to  appear 
as  if  nothing  were  amiss. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  farmer.  "And  how  do  you 
feel  today  ?  Was  it  very  draughty  up  here  ? ' ' 

."Good  morning.    I  have  slept  well,  and  I  thank  you." 

The  farmer  laughed  at  sight  of  his  visitor's  face,  which 
was  plastered  with  scraps  of  hay.  "You've  enough  hay  about 
you  to  feed  a  sheep  through  the  winter,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  had  risen.  As  he  stepped  out  into  the 
cold  morning  air,  his  teeth  chattered  audibly.  "The  sun 
is  not  up  yet,  it  seems,"  he  murmured. 

Never  before  had  he  so  longed  for  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
He  stood  now  staring  towards  the  east;  it  seemed  to  him  a 
miracle  that  he  should  be  suffered  to  see  the  sun  rise  once 
more. 

"The  blessed  sun,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 

The  sky  showed  a  dull  blue  between  hurrying  banks  of 
cloud.  The  farmer  yawned,  and  observed  carelessly,  "It's 
cold  in  the  mornings  now.  Come  in;  there  will  be  coffee 
ready  soon." 


240  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Guest  the  One-eyed  went  into  the  cowshed,  washed  himself 
at  the  drinking-trough,  and  dried  his  face  and  hands  on  his 
coat,  the  farmer  watching  him  the  while. 

"You're  one  for  cleanliness,  I  see,"  he  said.  "I  never 
trouble  to  wash  myself,  these  cold  mornings." 

The  wanderer  produced  a  piece  of  comb,  and  tidied  his  hair 
and  beard ;  it  was  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  to  get  rid  of  the 
scraps  of  hay. 

"Why  not  stay  here  for  the  day  and  have  a  good  rest?" 
suggested  the  farmer.  And  with  a  sly  glance  he  added :  "I 
daresay  we  can  afford  to  give  you  a  bite  of  food. ' ' 

"I  thank  you.     But  I  must  go  on." 

"Ay,  there's  always  haste  with  those  that  have  nothing  to 
do, ' '  said  the  farmer,  with  a  touch  of  malice. 

He  walked  down  a  little  way  with  his  guest,  some  of  the 
farm  hands  accompanying  them.  The  wanderer  bade  fare- 
well to  each  in  turn,  and  all  answered  with  a  blessing.  Then 
they  turned  back,  the  farmer  alone  going  on  a  few  steps  more. 

"Have  you  not  some  good  word  to  leave  with  me?"  he 
asked  a  little  awkwardly. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  looked  at  the  man  from  head  to  foot; 
the  burly  fellow  stood  as  timidly  before  him  as  a  child  that 
had  done  wrong. 

"It  would  be  well  if  you  were  oftener  to  take  the  beggar's 
bag  upon  your  shoulders,"  he  said.  And,  having  shaken 
hands  in  parting,  he  walked  away. 

"God  be  with  you,"  said  the  farmer,  and  stood  for  some 
moments  watching  the  beggar  as  he  limped  along.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  began  to  feel  that  perhaps  after  all 
wealth  and  security  were  not  the  only  things  worth  coveting. 
There  were  other  things — other  feelings  than  the  sense  of 
material  gain  or  loss. 

He  walked  back  to  the  house  somewhat  humbled  in  mind, 
and,  going  into  his  room,  sat  down  on  the  bed  with  his  head 
bowed  in  his  hands.  For  long  hours  he  sat  there,  seemingly 
in  thought.  In  the  evening,  he  roused  himself  with  a  sigh, 
and  went  out  to  where  the  men  were  working.  His  tone 
seemed  harsher  than  his  wont  as  he  ordered  them  about. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  241 

But  Guest  the  One-eyed  went  on  his  way,  shivering  and 
muttering  to  himself : 

"Haste — yes,  for  today.  But  tomorrow?  Who  knows? 
Who  asks?  What  do  we  know  of  it  all?  Life  .  .  .  and 
mortals  playing  at  joy  and  sorrow;  a  little  life  ...  a  long 
life  .  .  .  playing  at  life  .  .  .  playing  with  others'  hearts  and 
with  our  own.  And  thinking  it  all  in  earnest.  And  the 
end?  The  grave,  the  grave.  Cold  earth,  dark  earth,  where 
the  sun  cannot  reach,  though  its  grace  be  spread  all  above. 
My  God,  my  God,  what  are  my  thoughts?  Not  earnest?  Is 
it  not  earnest,  all  our  life?  Lord,  forgive  me.  Thoughts, 
thoughts  that  come  and  go — but  not  for  long.  Thoughts  fear- 
ing to  end,  to  die  under  the  earth,  and  never  reach  to  heaven. 
My  soul — Lord  God,  where  is  my  soul  ?  Is  there  a  soul  that 
is  mine  ?  Lord,  Lord,  forgive  me !  This  is  the  last  day  Thy 
grace  allows  me ;  the  last  day  of  life  on  earth,  of  life  and  the 
blessing  of  the  sun  for  me;  the  last  day  granted  me  to  feel 
joy  in  the  light.  Joy?  But  my  days  have  been  pain,  pain. 
And  yet  there  is  joy.  .  .  .  The  last  day  .  .  .  Lord,  here  am 
I,  Thy  servant.  Let  Thy  wrath  be  turned  away  from  me,  O 
Lord,  and  see  my  heart  that  repents,  repents.  Forgive  me, 
Lord.  .  .  ." 

He  crouched  down  beside  a  rock,  and  laid  his  head  upon 
the  stone. 

"God  in  heaven,  I  can  feel  Thy  presence.  Or  is  it  that 
God  is  far  away  ?  Is  it  mercy  or  God 's  judgment  that  comes  ? 
Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  there  can  be  forgiveness.  .  .  .  Thy  will 
be  done!" 

He  rose,  and  limped  along  his  painful  way. 


CHAPTER  XII 

GUEST  THE   ONE-EYED  wandered  far  that  day. 
He  felt  that  it  was  fated  to  be  his  last. 
Fever  burned  in  his  veins;  fever  in  his  soul.     It 
seemed  a  painful  task  to  end  this  life.     And  he  was  tormented 
by  dread  lest  his  sufferings  should  after  all  not  suffice  to 
atone  for  his  sin. 

Sun  and  rain  and  hail  took  turns  to  follow  him  on  this 
the  hardest  of  all  his  wandering  days.  Clouds  and  sheets  of 
hail  passed  before  the  face  of  the  sun,  making  strange  shad- 
ows on  the  hillsides,  the  contrast  being  more  pronounced 
where  dark  stretches  of  lava  and  the  lighter  hue  of  corn- 
fields alternated.  One  moment  the  sun's  rays  warmed  him, 
the  next  he  was  stung  by  the  sudden  lash  of  hailstones  in 
his  face.  It  was  a  day  of  contest  between  the  powers  of  sun 
and  shadow — a  giant's  battle  where  summer  and  life  were 
pitted  against  autumn  and  death.  And  the  earth  over  which 
it  raged  was  marked  by  each  in  turn. 

His  beggar's  staff  changed  constantly  from  a  dry,  gleam- 
ing white  to  a  dripping  grey.  He  swung  it  at  each  step,  as 
it  were  a  distorted  extra  limb.  And  the  figure  of  the  man 
standing  against  the  changing  background  of  the  sky  seemed 
hardly  human;  more  like  some  fantastic  creation  of  Nature 
herself. 

And  this  man's  soul,  maybe,  was  rugged  and  misshapen 
as  his  body.  But  the  soul  of  a  man  is  not  so  easy  to  see.  .  .  . 

The  first  homestead  he  came  to  on  this  day's  march  was 
a  little  place.  A  peasant  and  his  wife  came  out  to  meet 
the  stranger,  the  rest  of  their  people  following.  They  were 
at  home  today,  by  reason  of  the  weather,  and  had,  more- 
over, expected  his  arrival.  All  the  district  knew  by  now 
that  Guest  the  One-eyed  had  come  amongst  them.  The 

242 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  243 

peasant  and  his  household  received  him  kindly,  with  many 
blessings.  He  felt  their  kindness  without  any  need  of  words, 
and  marked  how  they  were  glad  to  have  him  with  them. 

And  talking  with  them,  he  spoke  the  name  of  Sera  Ketill, 
once  their  priest,  whom  all  remembered  now  with  execration. 
Here,  too,  the  tongues  that  had  been  ready  with  blessing  for 
himself  were  quick  to  curse  at  the  mention  of  that  name; 
to  their  minds,  Sera  Ketill  was  a  monster,  a  thing  of  dread. 
His  very  name  made  them  shudder  as  if  at  the  touch  of 
some  loathsome  thing.  He  was  a  murderer,  a  hypocrite, 
and  a  cheat;  they  could  not  find  in  him  the  slightest  link 
of  charity  and  affection  with  his  fellow-men.  Even  his 
death  had  been  the  act  of  a  despicable  creature,  in  that  he 
had  endeavoured  to  secure  their  regard  by  leaving  all  he  had 
to  the  poor,  and  then  flinging  himself  over  the  cliffs  into 
the  sea.  This  last  was  not  even  a  fine  thought  of  his  own — 
a  young  poet  had  been  the  first  to  go  that  way,  and  by  that 
very  spot. 

But  the  Devil  had  taken  his  body,  and  his  soul,  if  any 
shred  of  soul  he  had,  had  doubtless  gone  with  it.  A  thing 
of  no  use  upon  earth!  He  had  not  even  had  the  courage 
to  face  the  consequences  of  his  acts.  He  was  a  stain  upon 
mankind ;  in  justice,  he  should  have  been  burned  at  the  stake 
before  his  soul  went  on  its  way  to  hell. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  listened  pale  as  death  to  the  bitter 
words.  Strange,  how  a  man's  character  could  thus  outlive 
him  in  the  memory  of  his  fellows.  Twenty  years  had  not 
sufficed  to  bring  oblivion  for  the  wrongs  this  man  had  done. 
His  body  might  have  been  reduced  to  ashes  in  a  moment, 
but  the  fire  of  hate  burned  still  about  his  memory. 

The  wanderer  looked  at  the  faces  of  those  about  him — 
faces  that  one  moment  shone  with  kindly  pleasure  and  the 
next  glowed  fiercely  with  hate.  He  could  not  but  smile, 
though  his  heart  was  heavy.  Poor  mortals,  poor  unseeing 
men,  seeing  good  and  evil  as  things  absolute,  unalterable. 

But  while  his  thoughts  were  busy,  his  soul  cried  all  the 
time  to  God,  praying  forgiveness.  .  .  . 

Thoughts  within  thoughts,   and  thoughts   again. 


244  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

For  they  were  right,  after  all,  these  men.  They  them- 
selves had  the  power  of  being  good  or  evil,  of  loving  or 
hating  without  reserve. 

It  was  their  hatred  he  was  feeling  now,  fuel  added  to  the 
furnace  of  his  own  remorse;  he  was  passing  through  a  pur- 
gatory of  maledictions. 

One  moment  he  saw  himself  as  Guest  the  One-eyed,  beg- 
gar and  wanderer — a  figure  clear  enough.  Then  he  was 
the  doomed  soul  on  the  verge  of  death,  doubting  everything, 
doubting  even  his  own  doubt,  torn  asunder  to  his  inner- 
most being,  a  living  cry  of  anguish  seeking  Heaven.  And 
then,  too,  he  was  the  penitent,  believing  and  trusting  in 
God — yet  even  so  unable  to  wrench  himself  free  from  the 
spectres  of  doubt  and  mockery  and  scorn  that  clung  to  him. 

Something  prompted  him  to  rise  and  speak  to  these  his 
fellows  gathered  round  him.  There  were  many  now;  for 
folk  had  come  from  places  near  to  see  the  man  of  whom  they 
had  heard  so  much.  Yes,  let  them  see  him  and  judge  him 
by  what  he  had  been  and  what  he  was  now,  and  act  as  they 
were  prompted  to  do.  It  was  not  enough  that  they  received 
Guest  the  One-eyed  with  blessings,  and  cursed  the  name  of 
Sera  Ketill;  he  longed  to  bring  both  before  them  as  one. 

But   the   impulse   reached   no   further  than   his   thought. 

As  they  cursed  the  man  that  he  had  been,  he  sat  silent, 
with  eyes  cast  down.  He  made  no  movement,  only  sighed. 
Then  at  last  he  rose,  and  stood  a  moment  trying  to  collect 
his  thoughts. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said.  "I  have  a  long  way  before  me  to- 
day." 

And  he  bade  farewell  to  each  in  turn,  confused  thoughts 
passing  through  his  mind  the  while. 

"They  give  me  their  hands — but  I  am  stealing  what  they 
give.  If  they  knew  me,  they  would  spit  on  me.  Stone  me, 
perhaps.  Would  they,  I  wonder — would  they  do  so  now? 
But  I  steal  what  they  give  because  I  need  it;  it  is  beca,use 
I  must.  Soon  my  hand  will  be  cold,  and  then  my  soul  will 
have  no  link  with  any  other  soul — no  way  to  feel  their  love 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  245 

and  innocent  kindness.  Yes,  I  must  let  them  give  me  their 
hands — as  many  as  I  can.  And  after  that,  the  grave.  Lord, 
remember  that  this  is  my  last  day  .  .  .  the  very  last.  But 
I  will  be  patient  .  .  .  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done!" 

And  he  went  on  his  way,  with  blessings  from  all.  The 
people  stood  silently  watching  him  as  he  went;  their  hearts 
had  been  moved  beyond  their  daily  wont  by  the  sight  of 
this  unhappy  wanderer,  and  their  thoughts  followed  him  now 
in  sympathy  along  his  sorrowful  way. 

The  wanderer's  heart  was  suffering  more  than  all.  His 
soul  ached  with  loneliness — he  felt  as  if  already  he  were  con- 
fined within  the  cold  walls  of  the  grave.  It  seemed  a  mar- 
vel to  him  that  he  could  endure  this  and  live. 

On  and  on  he  went,  thinking — thinking.  .  .  . 

"If  no  man  can  forgive  me,  if  no  human  heart  can 
realize  my  atonement,  can  then  God  ever  forgive?  The 
blessings  they  have  given  me — can  they  ever  outweigh  the 
curses  that  were  meant  for  me  as  well?  Lord,  if  only  one 
might  cross  my  path  to  know  me,  and  forgive.  One  who 
could  take  my  hand  and  know  and  pardon  all.  .  .  .  Lord, 
Thy  will  be  done.  ..." 

He  was  taking  the  road  towards  the  trading  station.  On 
the  way  he  entered  a  house  here  and  there,  and  was  greeted 
kindly  as  ever.  But  at  the  mention  of  Sera  Ketill's  name, 
all  who  heard  it  had  but  curses ;  eyes  that  had  looked  on  him 
in  kindliness  lit  now  with  hatred  of  the  man  he  named. 

"I  have  done  more  evil  even  than  I  thought,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself  as  he  went  on  his  way,  refusing  those  who 
would  have  shared  the  road.  "To  have  planted  so  much 
hatred  in  all  their  hearts;  to  be  the  cause  of  all  those 
evil  thoughts  beyond  my  own;  things  grown  in  the  dark 
from  evil  seed  of  my  sowing.  Lord,  who  shall  ever  tear 
them  up  and  destroy  them  that  they  may  not  rise  again? 
Lord,  can  it  be  that  the  fruits  of  sin  never  cease,  when  good 
conies  to  an  end  at  last?  Lord,  Lord,  now  I  see  the  great- 
ness of  my  sin — more  than  I  had  dreamed.  And  now  I  am 
come  to  the  verge  of  death  and  have  no  strength  even  to 


246  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

suffer  more.     Only  Thy  mercy,  Lord — grant  me  Thy  mercy, 
that  hast  denied  me  the  forgiveness  of  men." 


The  trading  station  had  grown  considerably  in  the  twenty 
years  that  had  passed.  There  were  many  new  houses  in  the 
place.  And  the  wanderer  looked  in  vain  for  the  turf  huts 
that  had  formed  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement  when  he  knew 
it.  They  were  gone,  and  modern  buildings  stood  where  they 
had  been. 

He  limped  from  door  to  door,  bearing  with  him  each  time 
blessings  for  Guest  the  One-eyed  and  curses  for  the  name 
of  Sera  Ketill.  At  the  last  house,  he  asked : 

"Where  do  the  poor  live  now?" 

There  was  still  a  glimmer  of  hope  in  his  heart  that  there, 
among  the  poorest,  he  might  find  one  single  heart  to  bless 
Ketill  the  priest  for  what  he  had  given. 

"There  are  no  poor  here  now,"  was  the  reply. 

"Are  all  in  Hofsfjordur  grown  rich?" 

' '  There  is  a  poor  widow  living  out  at  Bolli,  a  lonely  place 
at  the  foot  of  the  hills.  But  'tis  her  own  fault  that  she 
lives  as  poorly  as  she  does.  She  might  have  taken  the  help 
that  was  offered  her.  But  it  was  the  Devil  Priest's  money, 
and  she  would  not  take  it." 

"The  Devil  Priest?" 

"Sera  Ketill  was  his  name.  But  we  call  him  the  Devil 
Priest." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Guest  the  One-eyed. 

"Peace  go  with  you." 

On  his  way  out  from  the  trading  station,  he  passed  by  a 
shed  from  which  came  the  sound  of  voices  within.  The  door 
stood  half-open,  and,  looking  in,  he  saw  in  the  half-dark 
four  strange  figures — three  men  and  a  woman,  ragged  and 
wild-looking ;  evidently  these  were  vagabonds  like  himself. 

The  woman  was  shouting  a  ribald  song;  one  of  the  men 
sat  crouched  on  the  floor  rocking  with  laughter.  The  other 
two  men  were  fighting,  the  stronger  chuckling  at  each  sue- 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  247 

cessful  blow,  while  the  other  fought  in  silence,  waiting  his 
chance. 

The  man  on  the  floor  called  out  to  the  others  with  an  oath 
to  come  and  listen.  "Give  over,  you  fools,  and  come  and 
hear.  Tis  a  new  song — one  of  Gudda 's  best.  Ay,  Gudda, 
she  can  make  a  song,  if  she's  not  as  young  as  she  used  to 
be.  .  .  . "  And  he  came  shambling  over  towards  them. 

He  was  a  tall  fellow,  bigger  than  either  of  his  two  com- 
panions, still  young,  with  reddish-yellow  hair  and  a  pasty 
face.  The  two  sprang  away  as  he  came  up. 

"Mind  your  own  business,  Luse-Grimur ! "  cried  the  one 
nearest.  This  was  a  dark  man  of  slender  build,  known  as 
the  Bishop,  from  a  way  he  had  of  mimicking  the  tones  of 
a  priest,  and  repeating  fragments  of  an  indecent  parody  of 
the  marriage  service  whenever  a  couple  came  together. 
"Keep  away,  and  don't  bring  your  lice  near  me." 

"You'll  have  my  hands  nearer  than  you  care  for  in  a 
minute,"  answered  Grimur,  with  a  leer.  "Go  on,  Gudda." 

Gudda  was  known  for  her  talent  in  making  songs.  She 
was  a  powerfully  built  woman  getting  on  in  years,  with  a 
coarse  voice  in  keeping  with  her  coarse  face  and  heavy  build. 
Her  skirt  reached  hardly  below  her  knees,  showing  a  pair 
of  muscular  legs;  her  stockings  were  of  rough  material,  and 
clumsily  darned.  One  redeeming  feature  she  had — her  large 
blue  eyes.  Children  feared  her  until  she  looked  them  full 
in  the  face,  when  the  glance  of  her  eyes  seemed  to  draw  them 
to  her. 

She  was  one  of  the  few  women  vagabonds  in  the  country, 
and  was  known  far  and  wide  for  her  vulgar  songs. 

Looking  towards  the  door,  she  caught  sight  of  the  stranger, 
and  called  to  him  to  come  in.  Guest  the  One-eyed  limped 
over  to  the  group. 

"God's  peace,"  he  said  as  he  entered. 

"God's  peace  with  you,"  returned  the  others,  somewhat 
abashed. 

Suddenly  the  youngest  of  the  party  stepped  forward.  This 
was  Jon  Gislason,  a  short,  thick-set  fellow  who  had  some  claim 
to  good  repute,  being  known  to  work  at  times,  and  trusted 


248  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

to  carry  letters  and  parcels  from  place  to  place.  He  strode 
up  to  the  newcomer,  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"He's  one  of  our  sort,"  he  said.  "It  is  Guest  the  One- 
eyed." 

There  was  a  shout  of  welcome  at  this,  and  Grimur  took 
out  a  flask  from  his  pocket. 

"Best  corn  brandy,"  he  declared,  handing  the  bottle  to 
Guest.  "Good  stuff,  you  can  take  my  word  for  it."  Then, 
in  a  slightly  altered  tone,  he  went  on :  "I  daresay,  now,  you 
think  us  rather  a  rough  lot,  you  being  more  gentle  like.  But 
it's  just  our  way.  Rap  out  an  oath  without  thinking 
like." 

"  'Tis  not  such  words  that  do  the  worst  of  harm,"  said 
Guest  the  One-eyed.  And  he  took  a  sip  from  the  flask. 

Then  with  a  grimace  he  spat  it  out.  "I  thought  it  might 
do  me  good,"  he  said.  "But  I  can't  swallow  it,  all  the 
same." 

"Oh,  you  swine!"  shouted  Grimur  as  he  saw  the  precious 
liquid  wasted.  "There,  I'm  sorry,"  he  went  on.  "That's 
no  way  to  speak  to  a  godly  man.  But  the  stuff's  too  good 
to  waste.  Leastways,  to  my  thinking." 

Guest  the  One-eyed  offered  his  hand. 

"No  harm,  brother,"  he  said.  "Each  to  his  own  ways." 
"  'Brother,'  "  repeated  Grimur  thickly.  "Calls  me  brother 
— shakes  hands.  Nobody  ever  called  me  brother  before.  My 
own  folk  won't  touch  me,  call  me  Luse-Grimur,  and  keep  far 
out  of  reach  of  vermin.  Ay,  it's  true  enough  what  they  say 
of  you,  Guest  One-eyed.  God's  blessing,  man." 

""Well  have  Grimur  drowning  his  lice  in  floods  of  tears," 
grumbled  the  Bishop.  "See  them  swimming  around  and 
saying  their  prayers,  Amen!" 

"You,  Bishop,"  said  Grimur  warningly — "well  for  you 
this  good  man's  here.  If  it  weren't  for  him,  I'd  send  you 
swimming  and  saying  your  prayers  in  earnest  for  less  than 
you've  said." 

"Filthy  beast,"  said  Gudda  scornfully,  and  spat  at  the 
Bishop,  who  only  laughed. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  turned  to  him  with  a  keen  glance. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  249 

"Have  you  ever  thought,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  one  day 
must  be  your  last — that  your  tongue  may  be  silent  for  ever 
after  any  word  you  have  spoken  ? ' ' 

"Ho,  yes.  And  I've  got  it  all  ready  what  I'm  going  to 
say.  When  I  get  to  the  Gates  of  Heaven — if  the  Devil  hasn  't 
pinched  my  soul  all  hot  on  the  way — I'll  say  to  the  Lord: 
'  Here  you  are ;  Behold  the  Son  of  Man ! '  That 's  my  words. ' ' 

"You  also  are  my  brother,'  said  Guest  the  One-eyed.  And 
he  held  out  his  hand. 

The  Bishop  spat  in  it. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  stood  silent  gazing  at  his  extended 
hand.  Then  he  sat  down  and  sobbed. 

The  Bishop's  laugh  of  derision  died  away.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  breathing  heavily,  then  slunk  out  of  the  shed  and 
went  away. 

The  other  three  stood  silently  watching,  afraid  to  look 
at  each  other,  uncertain  what  to  do. 

After  a  little  Guest  the  One-eyed  regained  his  self-control, 
and,  looking  up  at  them,  he  said  quietly : 

"Friends,  do  not  hate  him;  believe  that  he  is  not  worse 
than  others.  Only,  the  way  to  his  heart  is  longer  and  harder 
to  find." 

"I  have  far  to  go,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.    "Good-bye." 

"God's  blessing,"  murmured  the  others  as  he  left. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  outside  the  shed,  uncertain  which 
way  to  turn.  He  would  have  liked  to  go  to  Hof,  to  the 
vicarage  on  the  other  side  of  the  fjord,  but  it  was  too  far 
to  walk.  This  was  his  last  day,  and  already  a  good  part 
of  it  was  gone,  though  he  had  lost  no  time. 

He  hobbled  down  to  the  beach  to  see  if  there  might  chance 
to  be  a  boat  going  across.  Just  as  he  neared  the  slope,  he 
perceived  a  little  group  of  people  gathered  round  something 
he  could  not  see.  Close  by,  a  small  rowing-boat  was  drawn 
up  on  the  sand.  Going  closer,  he  saw  a  man  bending  over  a 
heap  of  clothes.  Presently  the  man  rose  up,  and  said: 

"He  is  dead" 

Those  near  bared  their  heads  and  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross. 


250  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Guest  the  One-eyed  needed  but  a  glance  at  the  ragged  heap 
to  recognize  it — it  was  the  body  of  the  Bishop. 

"And  only  a  moment  since  I  was  with  him,"  he  said. 

"We  were  too  late,"  said  a  fisherman.  "Saw  him  throw 
himself  into  the  sea,  and  hurried  after.  But  he  held  on  to 
some  weed  down  below — look,  there's  some  of  it  in  his  hand 
still." 

And,  true  enough,  the  dead  hand  clutched  a  tangle  of  weed. 

"So  he  is  gone  already  to  stand  before  the  Lord,"  he 
murmured.  "Poor  soul — God  grant  him  peace."  And  he 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  above  the  body. 

The  men  were  running  the  boat  out.  He  went  up  to  them 
and  asked: 

"Are  there  many  going  across?" 

"Only  myself,"  answered  a  young  man.  "I  am  working 
at  the  vicarage,  and  going  back  there  now." 

"Will  you  take  me  with  you  to  the  other  side  of  the  fjord?" 

"Gladly,"  answered  the  young  man,  and  flushed  with 
pleasure. 

The  day  was  fine  now,  but  clouds  were  racing  across  the 
sky.  Rain  and  hail  had  ceased,  only  the  shadows  of  the 
clouds  darkened  the  water  as  they  passed. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  sat  still,  gazing  around  him  as  the  boat 
shot  out  into  the  fjord.  His  eyes  took  in  the  landscape; 
there,  nestling  in  the  valley,  lay  the  homestead  of  Borg. 

The  sight  of  it  moved  him;  this  was  the  place  that  had 
been  his  home.  Strange  to  think  of  it  now.  There  his  infant 
limbs  had  learned  to  walk,  and  thither  he  turned  now,  for 
the  last  steps  on  his  road  of  life. 

He  was  roused  from  his  meditations  by  the  youth,  who 
nodded  over  towards  a  steep  cliff  rising  from  the  water. 

"That  was  where  Sera  Ketill  killed  himself,"  he  said. 
"You've  heard  of  Sera  Ketill?" 

"Yes.     I  knew  him.     Better,  perhaps,  than  many  did." 

"A  monster  of  wickedness  he  must  have  been,"  said  the 
young  man,  as  if  inviting  the  other  to  tell  what  he  knew. 

For  the  moment,  Guest  the  One-eyed  was  dull  to  the  pain 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  251 

which  condemnation  of  Sera  Ketill  usually  caused  him.  He 
was  about  to  answer  absently,  "Judge  not  ..."  but  checked 
himself  and  sat  gazing  vacantly  across  the  water. 

"I  never  thought  to  sail  on  the  sea  again,"  he  said,  as  if 
to  himself. 

"Again?" 

"Yes.    I  have  sailed  far  in  my  time,  and  seen  many  lands." 

The  young  man  seemed  to  take  this  as  a  jest. 

"You  mean  in  thought,  I  take  it?"  he  suggested. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  looked  at  him.  "You  are  not  without 
sense,"  he  remarked.  "Do  you  travel  in  thought  yourself?" 

The  young  man  laughed,  and  shook  his  head.  "Not  much. 
But  I  am  going  to  America  this  winter." 

"Do  not  do  that,"  said  the  other  quietly. 

' '  Why  not  ?     There  is  good  money  to  be  made  there. ' ' 

"True.  But  it  is  easiest  to  die  in  the  place  where  one  was 
born." 

"I  have  not  thought  of  dying  just  yet." 

"Maybe  not.  But  life  leads  only  to  death.  Death  is 
the  only  thing  we  can  be  certain  of  gaining;  perhaps  the 
only  gain." 

"I  had  heard  that  Guest  the  One-eyed  preached  the  Gospel 
of  Life, ' '  said  the  young  man  seriously. 

"And  you  are  disappointed  to  find  that  Guest  the  One- 
eyed  is  only  human  after  all  ? " 

The  young  man  did  not  reply,  and  they  went  on  in  silence. 
They  were  more  than  half-way  across  the  fjord  by  now. 
Guest  the  One-eyed  sat  thinking  of  the  strange  currents  be- 
neath the  smooth  surface,  and  the  marvels  of  life  in  the 
hidden  depths.  All  seemed  incomprehensible;  the  sea,  the 
life  of  man — they  were  much  alike.  Human  existence  was 
merciless,  restless,  as  the  restless  tossing  of  the  waves. 

It  was  a  relief  to  step  out  of  the  boat  and  tread  good  earth 
again ;  for  a  moment  his  mission  was  forgotten. 

But  the  sight  of  the  churchyard  brought  it  once  more  to 
his  mind.  He  passed  through  the  gateway.  The  church  was 
new — a  more  imposing  edifice  than  the  old  one.  Bright  in 


252  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

colour,  and  clean  and  pleasant  in  appearance — as  he  looked, 
memories  of  the  old,  dark,  forbidding  little  place  rose  to 
his  mind. 

At  the  entrance  door  the  old  stone  steps  remained.  He 
knelt  down  upon  them,  and  pressed  his  forehead  against 
the  stone.  Then  he  rose,  and  went  to  the  burial-place  of 
Borg.  He  found  the  stone  he  was  seeking,  and  laid  himself 
down  beside  it  in  silent  prayer. 

"When  at  last  he  rose,  he  was  so  weak  that  he  could  hardly 
drag  himself  along.  He  would  not  enter  the  vicarage,  how- 
ever, though  he  needed  rest  and  food.  Passing  on,  he  took 
a  narrow,  unfrequented  path  down  towards  the  valley. 

The  man  who  had  rowed  him  over  had  at  once  told  the 
household  that  Guest  the  One-eyed  was  come,  and  had  gone 
into  the  churchyard.  Soon,  as  he  did  not  appear,  they  went 
out  to  look  for  him,  searching  in  every  corner  where  a  man 
might  be.  But  Guest  the  One-eyed  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

KEEPING-  to  the  side  track  for  some  time,  Guest  the 
One-ej^ed   made   his   way   down   from   the  vicarage 
lands   unobserved,   but   soon   turned   off   across   the 
hills  towards  the  main  road.     Step  by  step  he  dragged  himself 
towards  his  home,  shivering  in  fever,  weary  and  exhausted, 
leaving  the  rest  to  God. 

The  journey  must  be  made;  this  road  he  must  travel  to 
the  end,  no  matter  what  greeting  he  might  find.  Curses 
only,  it  might  be ;  a  death  without  a  single  kindly  word.  But 
his  way  to  death  lay  through  Borg — and  he  was  nearing  the 
end  of  it  now. 

Home  to  Borg !  home  to  Borg !  home  to  Borg !  The  words 
beat  in  his  blood  like  a  promise  of  release,  his  heart  sobbed 
with  joy,  and  a  new  hope  filled  him,  driving  all  doubt  away. 
Peace  and  forgiveness  were  near. 

Home  to  Borg!  home  to  Borg!  home  to  Borg!  All  was 
brighter  now ;  a  childlike  happiness  came  over  him.  He  had 
sinned  and  fled,  fearing  his  punishment ;  now  he  was  return- 
ing home  to  be  forgiven. 

He  made  such  speed  as  he  could,  despite  his  waning 
strength.  Homeward!  homeward! 

Rain  and  hail  began  to  fall  once  more,  but  he  did  not 
heed.  His  mind  was  full  of  the  thought  that  he  was  near- 
ing  a  kindly  end,  a  peaceful  passing  into  eternal  rest. 

Home  to  Borg !  home  to  Borg !  home  to  Borg ! 

His  feet  stepped  in  time  to  the  ring  of  the  words,  that 
sounded  like  sweetest  music  in  the  ears  of  the  wearied  pilgrim. 
Never  before  had  there  been  such  a  welcome  message  for 
any  on  earth.  Only  a  bruised  and  tortured  soul  could  feel 
the  joy  of  it :  home  to  Borg !  home  to  Borg ! 

Great  is  the  glory  of  the  sun  that  brings  delight,  of  the 

253 


254  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

spring  that  fills  the  world  with  sweetness,  but  nothing  to  the 
wonder  of  returning  home  after  years  of  struggle,  years  of 
suffering  in  body  and  soul,  to  die  among  those  one  loves, 
those  who  will  forgive. 

Home  to  Borg!  home  to  Borg!  home  to  Borg! 

.  .  .  Only  the  stream  to  cross  now  .  .  .  only  the  little 
slope  to  climb  .  .  .only  a  few  steps  more  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  household  at  Borg  were  all  within  doors.  There 
was  no  working  outside  on  such  a  day.  The  sheep 
had  to  be  looked  to  now  and  again.  During  the 
storms  they  took  shelter  where  they  could,  but  these  once 
past,  they  scattered  about  to  graze  once  more. 

Ormarr  had  set  his  men  to  work  repairing  stables  and  cow- 
sheds, taking  a  part  himself  in  what  had  to  be  done.  But 
there  was  no  such  pressing  haste;  the  hands  went  to  their 
work  with  gossiping  and  laughter,  telling  stories  of  all  sorts, 
from  gruesome  ghost-tales  to  amusing  anecdotes  from  near 
and  far.  There  was  hardly  work  enough  for  all.  And  the 
wild  weather  out  of  doors  made  it  more  cheerful  to  be  within. 

Ormarr  and  0rlygur  took  no  part  in  the  general  gaiety. 
It  was  not  their  way  to  be  gloomy,  but  no  one  seemed  to 
notice  that  today  they  kept,  as  it  were,  somewhat  aloof. 
The  masters  might  well  have  something  that  occupied  their 
minds,  for  the  moment,  as  might  any  one  else.  And  no  one 
thought  anything  of  their  silence,  least  of  all  attempting  to 
intrude  on  their  reserve. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  neither  Ormarr  nor  0rlygur  was  in 
the  slightest  degree  depressed,  but  each  had  that  in  his  mind 
which  claimed  his  attention  beyond  all  else. 

0rlygur  could  not  forget  his  visit  to  Bolli  the  day  before. 
Time  and  again  the  various  impressions  of  what  had  passed 
recurred  to  his  mind — how  he  had  sat  waiting,  how  clean 
and  tidy  everything  had  been  in  the  place.  And  the  girl 
— every  single  movement  of  hers  was  fixed  in  his  memory, 
even  to  the  ever-restless  little  finger  of  her  left  hand-  He 
repeated  over  and  over  again  the  words  he  had  heard  her 
speak ;  even  the  intonation  was  still  fresh  in  his  mind. 

So  deeply  was  he  occupied  with  these  recollections  that  he 

255 


256  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

found  little  thought  for  Guest  the  One-eyed,  and  yet  he 
longed  to  see  the  old  man  again.  He  felt  an  ever-increasing 
desire  to  talk  with  him,  and,  in  particular,  to  learn  from  a 
reliable  source  whether  his  father  had  really  been  so  evil 
a  man  as  was  generally  declared  to  be  the  case.  Possibly 
Guest  the  One-eyed  might  be  able  to  recount  something  at 
least  to  the  credit  of  the  former  priest.  Had  there  been  any- 
thing good  in  him,  Guest  the  One-eyed  would  surely  have 
found  it.  And  0rlygur  earnestly  hoped  that  his  father  might 
prove  to  have  been  not  altogether  bad. 

Ormarr  was  thinking  of  a  dream  he  had  had  the  night  be- 
fore. It  was  hardly  any  connected  dream,  only  a  sudden 
vision  that  had  come  while  he  slept.  He  had  seen  his  father 
and  Sera  Ketill  standing  hand  in  hand  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 
That  was  all.  But  Ormarr  could  not  get  the  vision  out  of  his 
mind,  and  was  superstitious  enough  to  attach  some  importance 
to  it.  The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  he  felt  sure  it 
must  mean  something — what,  he  could  not  say. 

Was  it  that  his  father  had  wished  to  declare  to  him  that 
he  had  forgiven  Ketill,  and  no  longer  desired  any  feeling 
•  of  enmity  to  exist  between  the  brothers  ?  It  seemed  the  most 
reasonable  explanation. 

But  how  could  his  father  ever  expect  him  to  forgive  Ketill, 
after  he  had  witnessed  the  terrible  scene  in  the  church,  and 
all  it  had  cost?  Not  only  the  life  it  had  taken;  there  was 
also  the  tragedy  of  the  poor  woman  who  had  dragged  through 
twenty  years  of  life  a  mental  wreck.  Ormarr  had  seen  his 
brother  denounce  their  father  from  the  pulpit  for  the  sin  he, 
Ketill,  had  committed;  the  consequences  of  that  sin  had  been 
left  to  Ormarr  to  mitigate  as  far  as  he  could. 

Ormarr  himself  had  only  known  his  brother  as  a  boy.  All 
the  time  he  had  been  abroad  they  had  never  met,  until  the 
time  when  Ketill  appeared  in  Copenhagen  about  to  enter  on 
his  priesthood.  And  on  that  occasion,  despite  the  claims  of 
relationship,  Ormarr  had  found  it  impossible  to  feel  any  real 
liking  for  him.  Now,  knowing  as  he  did  that  even  at  that 
time  the  avowed  servant  of  God  had  a  sin  upon  his  conscience 
of  which  he  showed  no  sign,  it  was  impossible  to  feel  any 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  257 

regard  for  him.  Since  then  they  had  had  no  intercourse  with 
each  other,  and  it  had  never  occurred  to  Ormarr  that  Ketill 
could  ever  feel  himself  unfairly  treated  in  the  apportionment 
either  of  material  inheritance  or  of  affection.  Ormarr  had 
never  sought  to  probe  the  workings  of  his  brother's  mind, 
and  had  no  idea  of  the  way  he  schemed  and  wrought  in 
secret.  He  had  seen  only  the  outward  effect  of  action,  know- 
ing nothing  of  the  inner  cause,  and  all  that  he  had  seen  had 
been  evil.  So  evil,  indeed,  had  Sera  Ketill 's  actions  been 
that  they  seemed  to  justify  the  name  that  had  been  given 
him — the  Devil's  Priest. 

No.  He  searched  his  mind  and  heart,  but  could  not  find 
a  single  spark  of  kindly  feeling  towards  his  brother,  much 
less  affection.  No  matter  how  hard  he  tried  to  be  impartial, 
he  was  forced  to  admit  that  the  expression  even  of  any  other 
feeling  than  that  of  hatred  would  be  falsehood.  It  was  easy 
to  say,  "Forgive  the  dead,"  but — he  still  hated  his  brother 
and  loathed  his  memory.  The  man  was  dead,  and  had  al- 
ready heard  his  judgment  pronounced.  Ormarr  himself 
might  die,  but  he  felt  that  even  on  the  point  of  death  he  could 
not  feel  otherwise  than  he  did  now. 

Ketill  had  been  evil  all  through ;  no  act  had  been  so  mean 
but  he  could  stoop  to  it,  no  redeeming  feature  could  be  found 
in  all  his  doings.  He  had  violated  all  the  laws  of  love  and 
kinship,  and  trampled  all  that  was  sacred  underfoot.  Lying 
and  fraud  had  been  his  chosen  weapons,  and  his  methods 
were  as  foul  as  his  soul.  Forgive  him?  No — it  was  all  be- 
yond forgiveness. 

To  forgive  him  would  be  almost  like  becoming  himself  an 
accomplice  in  his  brother's  evil  deeds;  his  soul  would  be  tarn- 
ished by  the  mere  toleration  of  such  a  memory. 

The  Devil's  Priest  had  been  his  brother,  blood  of  his 
parents'  blood;  it  did  not  help  him.  It  was  impossible  to 
forgive.  It  seemed  natural  and  inevitable  as  the  breath 
of  life  to  curse  him,  hate  him,  and  condemn  him. 

Even  his  death  had  been  that  of  a  coward — a  fitting  end. 
And  the  last  attempt  to  win  the  hearts  of  the  people  after 
death  by  leaving  his  fortune  to  the  poor — that,  too,  was  a 


258  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

meanness  entirely  in  keeping  with  the  rest.  It  had  gained 
him  nothing,  after  all,  for  the  poor  accepted  his  gifts,  but 
reserved  the  right  to  curse  him,  all  the  same. 

No — even  though  his  father  took  Ketill  by  the  hand,  and 
led  him  forward  to  ask  his  brother 's  pardon,  though  the  vision 
were  to  come  a  hundred  times,  night  after  night  for  the  rest 
of  his  life — he  could  not  forgive  him. 

Thus  Ormarr  thought,  and  his  heart  grew  ever  harder 
towards  his  brother.  Later  in  the  day,  passing  by  Alma's 
window,  he  saw  her  sitting  there,  with  eyes  staring  emptily 
out  into  space.  And  his  indignation  rose  anew ;  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth  a  curse  on  the  name  of  the  Devil's  Priest. 

The  household  were  sitting  down  to  the  evening  meal  when 
Guest  the  One-eyed  came  crawling  on  hands  and  knees  up 
the  slope  towards  the  house.  0rlygur,  seeking  solitude  for 
the  enjoyment  of  his  thoughts  and  dreams,  was  the  only 
one  out  of  doors;  he  at  once  noticed  the  approaching  figure, 
and  hurried  towards  him,  heartily  glad  at  the  meeting.  He 
no  longer  felt  awkward  or  shy,  but  promptly  seized  the 
beggar's  sack  to  carry  up  to  the  house  himself. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  he  said,  shaking  hands 
warmly. 

The  old  man  stood  up  with  difficulty;  his  legs  were  totter- 
ing under  him.  He  looked  earnestly  at  the  young  man  with 
his  solitary  eye,  evidently  noting  with  satisfaction  the  un- 
feigned pleasure  in  his  face. 

His  brain  throbbed  still  to  the  words:  Home  to  Borg! 
home  to  Borg!  And  he  returned  the  young  man's  greeting 
in  a  voice  hardly  audible. 

He  had  come  home — and  his  son  was  glad  to  see  him. 

Then  suddenly  he  realized  that  his  son  did  not  know  him, 
and  the  thought  dashed  his  gladness  to  the  ground  in  a 
violent  reaction. 

0rlygur  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  through  to  the 
courtyard.  They  had  nearly  reached  the  house  when  Alma 
came  out,  leaning  on  old  Kata's  arm.  Kata  had  seen  him 
coming,  and  had  brought  her  mistress  out  to  meet  him. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  259 

At  sight  of  the  two  women,  Guest  the  One-eyed  all  but 
fell.  With  an  effort,  0rlygur  led  him  to  the  big  slab  of  stone 
that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard  and  could  be  used 
as  a  seat.  The  old  man  sank  down  on  it,  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

0rlygur,  alarmed  at  the  old  man's  evident  illness,  hurried 
into  the  house  to  call  his  father. 

Kata  was  in  high  spirits,  and  talked  volubly  to  her  mistress. 

"I  knew  he  would  come;  it  was  to  be.  Not  a  doubt  of 
it  but  God  has  brought  him  here,  at  the  end  of  his  wanderings. 
Truly  God  is  Almighty." 

But  the  beggar  sat  on  his  stone,  sobbing  and  murmuring 
brokenly : 

"My  God!  my  God! — this  is  my  doing;  I  have  put  out 
the  light  of  her  soul.  Those  empty  eyes !  0  God,  a  dreadful 
thing!  And  Thou  hast  willed  it  so,  that  I  should  see  and 
understand  there  could  be  no  forgiveness,  for  all  my  prayers 
no  mercy.  .  .  .  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done!" 

The  two  women  came  up  to  him;  he  raised  his  head  and 
looked  at  them,  with  fear  in  his  eyes. 

The  Danish  Lady  came  nearer,  and  stroked  his  hair. 

But  old  Kata  took  his  hand,  and  said : 

"Welcome  now!     God  has  forgiven  you." 

The  man  sat  still,  with  a  face  of  despair,  the  tears  pouring 
down  his  cheeks. 

"God  can  never  forgive  me,"  he  said. 

"He  can,"  said  old  Kata  earnestly.  "God  can  forgive 
all  sins  of  all  mankind.  And  you  have  borne  His  punishment 
with  patience." 

"I  have  borne  His  punishment,  yes.  And  now  there  is 
only  death."  i  liJJSl  I 

The  old  woman 's  wrinkled  face  lit  with  a  smile. 

"Be  glad  of  that,"  she  said. 

Guest  the  One-eyed  sat  drinking  in  the  peace  that  flowed 
to  him  through  the  gentle  touch  of  Alma's  fingers  as  they 
stroked  his  hair.  Old  Kata  watched  him,  and  understood. 

"See,"  she  said,  "she  does  not  know — and  yet  she  knows 


260  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

enough.  That  is  her  way  with  all  who  she  feels  are  good 
at  heart  and  suffering.  No  other  would  she  touch.  And 
never  has  she  come  to  any  with  such  tenderness  as  now. 
Heaven  bless  her." 

"Heaven  bless  her,"  repeated  the  broken  man. 

Just  at  that  moment  Ormarr  came  out  from  the  house, 
0rlygur  close  behind  him.  The  boy  had  whispered  to  his 
father  that  Guest  the  One-eyed  had  come,  and  was  evidently 
ill.  Ormarr  had  risen  immediately  and  came  striding  out 
now  with  a  friendly  smile  on  his  face. 

The  beggar  rose  to  his  feet,  looked  him  in  the  face,  and 
bowed  his  head.  Ormarr  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  and 
deathly  pale.  This  old  man,  this  wandering  beggar,  was  his 
brother,  the  one-time  priest — the  Devil's  Priest.  And  in  a 
moment  all  the  stories  he  had  heard  of  him  passed  through 
Ormarr 's  mind — his  wisdom,  his  unselfishness,  his  generosity 
and  self-sacrifice.  Ormarr  saw  the  depth  of  his  misery,  how 
deeply  he  was  crushed  and  humbled,  body  and  soul.  And 
he  had  seen  Alma  caressing  him,  thus  placing  him  at  once 
among  the  "good."  And  this  living  witness  to  Life's  ven- 
geance upon  sin,  with  its  merciless  humiliation,  wiped  away 
all  hatred  from  his  heart.  But  a  moment  ago  he  had  hated 
his  brother ;  now  all  was  changed.  Ormarr  sought  down  into 
the  depths  of  his  heart  to  see  if  any  vestige  of  hate  remained, 
but  found  none ;  all  unkindliness  was  gone,  and  only  pity  and 
sympathy  remained — yes,  and  love.  Once  more  the  vision 
of  the  night  before  rose  to  his  eyes. 

Swiftly  he  stepped  towards  the  pitiful  figure  and  raised 
him  up;  the  two  stood  sobbing  in  each  other's  arms.  Two 
sufferers  under  the  heavy  yoke  of  life;  two  creatures  with 
whom  life  had  played  its  pitiless  game  of  love  and  hate ;  two 
brothers  in  strife  and  sorrow. 

And  when  they  had  stood  thus  awhile,  Ormarr  kissed  his 
brother  and  stroked  his  cheek,  and  said : 

"Welcome  home,  brother." 

And  Ketill  answered:  "God  bless  you,  Ormarr.  I  have 
come  from  our  father's  grave,  and  I  felt  in  my  heart  that 
you  would  forgive  me." 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  261 

0rlygur  had  been  watching  the  scene  with  deep  emotion. 
At  first  he  saw  in  it  nothing  but  an  unusually  hearty  welcome 
on  the  part  of  Ormarr  towards  a  wandering  beggar.  But 
gradually  it  became  clear  to  him  that  it  was  more  than  this, 
and  as  their  words  revealed  the  truth,  he  stood  half  wonder- 
ing if  it  could  be  real. 

Then  Ormarr  turned  to  him  and  said : 

"0rlygur,  it  is  your  father." 

For  a  moment  the  young  man  stood  still,  his  face  twitch- 
ing in  the  effort  to  control  his  feelings.  Then  he  gave  up 
and,  sobbing  openly,  embraced  the  old  man  in  his  turn. 

Here  was  a  new  joy,  a  thing  undreamed  of.  From  child- 
hood he  had  believed  his  father  dead,  and  in  death  remem- 
bered only  with  execration  by  all  who  had  known  him.  And 
here  was  his  father  alive,  a  man  whom  all  who  knew  him 
blessed.  No  longer  any  need  to  ask  if  it  were  not  possible  to 
find  some  little  good  in  all  his  father's  deeds;  Guest  the  One- 
eyed  was  a  man  whose  good  deeds  were  told  on  every  side. 
This  was  his  father ;  one  whom  the  whole  country  blessed  and 
revered  for  his  Christian  spirit  and  unselfish  life.  A  man 
who  left  with  all  some  kindly  memory  of  every  meeting;  one 
who  knew  better  than  all  his  fellows  how  to  bring  out  the  good 
in  every  man.  However  terribly  he  might  have  sinned,  it  had 
been  more  than  atoned  for  in  those  twenty  years  of  humility 
and  self-sacrifice.  Surely  the  life  of  Guest  the  One-eyed 
was  enough  to  expiate  all. 

So  0rlygur  thought,  as  he  wept  in  his  father's  arms,  and 
his  heart  trembled  to  think  how  wonderful  were  the  ways 
of  life. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  shivered  and  sank  down,  unable  to 
stand.  They  helped  him  to  a  seat  on  the  stone,  supporting 
him  tenderly.  His  body  shook  with  a  convulsive  fit  of  cough- 
ing; his  mouth  filled  with  blood,  and  he  smiled  as  he  saw 
what  it  was. 

Ormarr  and  0rlygur  carried  him  into  the  house,  Kata  and 
Alma  following  behind. 

As  soon  as  they  had  laid  him  on  the  bed,  Ormarr  left  the 
room,  saying  he  would  return  directly. 


262  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

He  went  into  the  large  dining-room,  where  his  wife  was 
still  busy  with  supper  for  the  workers.  A  girl  who  was 
helping  her  left  the  room  as  he  entered;  Onnarr  closed  the 
door  behind  her. 

Runa  glanced  at  him,  laid  down  the  things  she  was  holding, 
and  sat  down  on  a  chest. 

"What  is  it,  Ormarr?"  she  asked  in  a  low,  anxious  voice. 

Ormarr  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  could  not.  He  took 
her  hand  and  sat  stroking  her  hair. 

''This,"  he  said  at  last.  "Guest  the  One-eyed  has  come. 
And  he  is  ill — very  ill — I  fear  he  is  dying." 

"Dying — oh,  what  can  we  do?  What  is  it?  Can  we  get 
a  doctor  to  help?" 

Runa  had  risen  to  her  feet  as  she  spoke,  but  something  in 
Ormarr 's  look  checked  her,  and  she  sat  down  again. 

Ormarr 's  voice  was  hardly  recognizable  as  he  went  on: 

' '  There  is  more.  Guest  the  One-eyed  is  ...  is  my  brother 
.  .  .  Ketill.  .  .  ." 

"Ketill!    Alive?" 

Ormarr  was  silent. 

"He  lives,"  said  Runa,  as  if  to  herself.  "Thank  God- 
thank  God  for  that!" 

"You — you  are  glad  of  that,"  said  Ormarr  eagerly.  Then 
he  turned  away.  "He  is  here,"  he  went  on,  "and  dying. 
I  have  forgiven  him — and  Alma  .  .  .  she  was  stroking  his 
hair.  .  .  ." 

"Alma?"  repeated  Runa,  deeply  moved.  "Oh  .  .  .  and 
that  is  Guest  the  One-eyed.  No  wonder  that  he  never  came 
here  before." 

Ormarr  sat  down  beside  his  wife,  then  rose  again.  "Shall 
we  ...  will  you  come  and  see  him?"  he  said.  "We  have 
put  him  to  bed  in  the  little  room." 

"Yes,"  said  Runa.    "Do  you  think  he  will  die?" 

"I  am  afraid  so." 

' '  If  only  death  may  bring  him  peace.  It  has  been  a  weary 
way  for  him." 

They  entered  the  room  together.  Ketill  lay  very  still, 
and  the  others  were  careful  not  to  disturb  him.  He  opened 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  263 

his  eyes  as  they  approached,  and  at  sight  of  Runa  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

She  bent  over  him,  and  kissed  his  forehead  gently.  Then, 
sitting  down  at  the  bedside,  she  said  in  a  calm,  soft  voice: 

"  Look  at  me,  Ketill." 

She  laid  her  hands  on  his  and  said  again : 

"Look  at  me,  Ketill.    It  is  all  forgiven." 

But  he  kept  his  face  turned  from  her,  and  only  muttered 
sadly : 

"How  could  you  ever  forgive  me?" 

"Look  at  me,  Ketill,  and  see." 

And  he  looked  up  into  her  eyes. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said.  "Love — only  love  and  kindness 
there.  You  have  forgiven  me — thank  you  for  that,  Runa. 
Heaven  bless  you." 

He  lay  still  for  a  while,  and  his  breathing  seemed  easier. 
Then  suddenly  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  round. 

"Nothing  left  now  but  to  die,"  he  said.  "I  can  see  it  is 
getting  dark  already.  Let  me  see  it  to  the  end — the  end  of 
the  day;  the  twilight  and  dear  faces  round  me.  I  shall  not 
see  tomorrow. ' ' 

"Do  not  talk,"  said  Runa  gently.     "Do  not  tire  yourself." 

"Let  me  talk,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile.  "My  tongue 
will  not  have  long  to  talk  at  all ;  it  will  last  me  the  little  that 
is  left.  Perhaps  it  might  speak  some  little  word  that  would 
live  in  memory — if  only  that  might  be.  My  friends,  do  not 
think  I  fear  to  die — that  I  would  put  it  off  a  single  second 
if  I  could.  It  would  be  good  to  live  with  you,  but  there  is 
more  than  that  to  think  of.  Only  death  can  make  atonement 
complete — and  blessed  be  death  for  that  it  does.  Forgive  me 
for  my  words — I  would  not  hurt  you,  any  one,  or  make  light 
of  your  goodness — you,  who  have  forgiven  me.  But  it  is 
true  that  only  death  can  give  me  peace  and  forgiveness  of 
all." 

He  looked  from  one  to  another  of  those  standing  round. 

"Friends — beautiful  faces,"  he  went  on.  "And  I  can  see 
the  souls  of  all  through  your  eyes,  and  all  your  thoughts. 
My  heart  bleeds  for  all  the  pain  and  sorrowing  that  I  who 


264  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

was  Sera  Ketill  left  to  you.  Even  you,  my  son,  young  as 
you  are,  have  found  suffering  already  in  life.  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  I  read  in  your  eyes  now  ?  Sorrow — sorrow  that  you 
cannot  feel  all  regret  now  that  your  father  is  to  die.  Do  not 
grieve  that  I  tell  you,  0rlygur;  your  thoughts  are  the  clean, 
good  thoughts  of  a  child,  and  I  love  them.  There  is  more  in 
your  mind  too.  I  know  what  it  means  to  you  to  learn  now 
that  your  father  did  not  die  as  you  thought — a  suicide.  But 
Sera  Ketill  died  then,  only  a  Guest  on  earth  remained  behind. 
And  there  is  one  thing  more,  that  you  yourself  perhaps  would 
not  have  said  before  so  many — you  are  thinking  of  the  girl 
you  have  chosen,  and  how  she,  too,  will  be  glad  to  hear  what 
you  have  learned  today.  Come  here  to  me,  0rlygur,  and 
take  my  blessing. ' ' 

0rlygur  rose,  and  the  tears  he  had  been  trying  bravely 
to  repress  flowed  freely  now.  He  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the 
bed,  and  hid  his  face  in  the  coverlet.  The  old  man  laid  his 
hand  on  his  son's  head. 

"Best  that  it  should  be  said,"  he  went  on.  "And  you 
may  be  glad  of  your  choice.  Her  heart  is  pure,  as  yours 
is.  And  she  will  be  faithful — as  you.  Clean  and  pure  in 
heart  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  weeping. 

' '  Clean  and  pure  in  heart, ' '  he  murmured  brokenly.  ' '  Oh, 
that  I  had  been  so  ...  that  I  had  been  ..." 

His  voice  was  lost,  and  for  some  time  he  could  not  speak. 
Then  with  an  effort  he  controlled  himself,  and  spoke  again: 

"Nothing  done  can  be  undone.  By  the  grace  of  God  it 
may  seem  that  wrong  has  been  atoned  for  and  forgiven.  I 
do  not  know  whether  I  have  atoned  for  my  sins,  or  whether 
they  can  ever  be  wiped  out.  Ormarr,  you  are  wondering 
yourself  now  how  it  can  be  that  the  hatred  of  me  that  still 
glowed  for  a  moment  in  your  eyes  when  you  found  me  before 
has  vanished  so  suddenly.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  it  was?  It 
was  because  you  saw  and  understood  how  I  had  suffered — 
suffered  the  pains  of  hell,  more  than  a  man  can  bear.  And 
because  you  had  suffered  too.  In  suffering  all  hearts  meet; 
more  than  all,  when  death  and  the  ties  of  blood  are  there  to 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  265 

help.  And  you,  Runa,  you  are  thanking  God  that  I  am  still 
alive,  and  that  I  have  suffered  as  I  have.  Never  a  doubt 
in  your  heart  but  that  God  has  forgiven  me.  And  so  you, 
too,  have  forgiven.  Kata,  you  and  I  can  read  each  other's 
thoughts;  our  thoughts  are  one.  And  though  you  know  it 
before  I  speak,  let  me  say  it;  it  is  you  I  have  to  thank  most 
of  all." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  turned  over  on  his  side,  and 
went  on : 

"At  the  moment  when  it  was  in  my  mind  to  throw  myself 
into  the  sea — I  had  thought  to  drown  myself  in  my  despair 
— I  remembered  you.  I  had  often  thought  of  you,  and 
guessed  something  of  the  sorrow  at  your  heart,  though  you 
never  let  it  be  seen.  I  knew  your  story — knew  that  one  had 
deceived  you,  and  that  you  could  not  forget.  I  saw  how  you 
went  about  as  a  blessing  to  others,  though  you  suffered  more 
than  all  the  rest.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  perhaps  your  life 
was,  after  all,  the  greatest  thing — greater  than  all  else,  to 
put  self  aside  and  live  for  others.  And  it  was  then  I  felt 
the  desire  to  try  if  I  could  not  wipe  away  my  sin — try  to 
spread  blessings  around  me  instead  of  despair.  And  so  I 
fled  away  to  a  distant  part,  hiding  at  night  and  travelling 
by  day.  '  Guest '  I  called  myself,  and  was  the  poorest  of  men, 
a  beggar,  a  wanderer,  living  by  the  grace  of  God  and  man, 
eating  with  the  dogs,  and  sleeping  at  night  in  barns  or  sheds 
among  the  cattle.  And  I  had  not  wandered  long  before 
I  found  enough  for  me  to  do.  Wherever  I  came,  I  found 
strife  and  malice  and  envy  and  misunderstanding  among 
those  who  should  have  lived  together  in  love.  And  I  took 
upon  me  to  work  for  reconciliation  between  my  fellow- 
men — with  one  another,  and  with  life  and  death.  For  men 
forget  that  life  is  but  a  speck  in  the-  vastness  of  space  with- 
out end;  that  life  comes  from  death  and  moves  towards 
death  in  a  narrow  circle.  And  so  they  fight  to  the  death, 
and  seek  to  wound  their  fellows,  ay,  and  strew  poison  in 
their  wounds,  forgetting  that  every  hurt  a  man  deals  his 
fellow  burns  deepest  in  his  own  heart.  With  hands  thirst- 
ing for  blood  and  souls  afire  with  hate  they  fight  one  against 


266  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

another — as  they  had  fought  for  generations.  And  the 
priests — the  servants  of  God?  Why  do  they  not  go  out 
among  the  people,  speaking  to  each,  and  trying  to  link  the 
souls  of  all  together  in  brotherly  love?  Instead  of  stand- 
ing up  like  idols  aloof  in  their  pulpits,  and  delivering  the 
word  of  God  as  an  oracle.  That  is  the  only  priesthood  that 
is  worthy  of  its  name,  the  only  way  to  show  forth  God's 
word  so  that  it  shall  be  felt  and  understood  and  live  in  the 
soul  itself.  I  could  have  won  many  a  man  to  leave  his  home 
and  follow  me — to  leave  his  father  and  mother,  his  wife,  and 
go  with  me.  But  how  many  are  ripe  for  such  a  task?  And 
it  was  not  for  that  I  had  set  out  upon  my  way." 

The  fever  increased.  He  lay  bathed  in  perspiration,  and 
his  eyes  glittered  more  brightly  than  before.  The  others 
gathered  closer  round  him,  trying  to  calm  him,  begging  him 
not  to  tire  himself  with  talking,  but  he  went  on: 

' '  And  now  that  I  am  to  go,  my  greatest  sorrow  is  that  there 
is  none  to  take  up  my  poor  work.  For  what  is  the  work 
of  one  man?  Oh,  if  there  were  enough;  if  there  were  many 
who  could  understand  that  the  greatest  of  all  is  to  put  aside 
self  and  bring  peace  on  earth.  That  the  greatest  joy  of  all 
is  to  be  a  poor  man,  going  from  place  to  place  and  show- 
ing others  the  way  to  free  their  hearts  from  the  yoke  of 
worldly  things.  But  the  priests — they  have  taken  office 
and  would  keep  it;  they  are  paid  for  their  work  in  money, 
and  grasp  at  it;  they  seek  a  higher  and  a  higher  place  in 
worldly  things,  for  their  heart  is  set  on  worldly  gain — not 
with  their  people,  not  with  their  God.  It  is  much  to  ask. 
I  know — too  much  to  ask  of  any  in  these  days.  But  it  is 
because  none  will  give  it  that  hatred  and  dissension  live 
and  grow.  I  do  not  know — forgive  me  that  I  say  this — I 
do  not  know  if  there  is  any  God,  but  I  believe  and  hope  it. 
If  I  should  say  I  know,  it  would  be  a  lie.  But  I  do  know 
that  there  is  more  happiness  in  peace  than  in  a  divided  mind. 
I  know  that  enmity  makes  the  heart  evil,  and  that  friend- 
ship makes  it  good.  And  I  know  that  our  life  is  made 
richer  by  love  and  goodness;  easier  to  bear,  more  natural. 
Where  all  is  hatred  and  strife,  who  can  find  any  meaning 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  267 

in  life  at  all?  The  only  thing  that  helps  us  to  understand 
life  at  all  is  our  own  striving  for  the  best  in  it." 

The  room  grew  darker.  As  the  sick  man  spoke  his  last 
words,  the  daylight  faded. 

"Light,"  he  said.  "The  darkness  will  be  long  enough 
when  it  comes." 

.  A  candle  was  lighted  and  placed  beside  the  bed.  Silence 
filled  the  room,  broken  only  by  the  old  man's  heavy  breath- 
ing. Those  around  him  were  busy  each  with  his  own 
thoughts.  Alma  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  had  apparently  lapsed 
into  her  usual  state  of  semi-consciousness,  from  which  the 
arrival  of  the  wanderer  had  roused  her  for  a  moment.  It 
grew  dark  and  the  light  was  lit,  but  she  did  not  heed. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  whispered  faintly : 

' '  Help  me  off  with  my  clothes. ' ' 

Runa  and  Ormarr  did  so;  tears  came  to  their  eyes  at  the 
sight  of  his  miserable  rags.  0rlygur  sat  apart,  his  face  swol- 
len with  weeping.  Ketill  smiled  as  the  cold  sheets  touched 
his  body. 

Suddenly  his  expression  changed  to  one  of  earnest  thought. 
And  after  a  little  while  he  asked : 

"If — if  Alma  would  come  and  sit  beside  me  here." 

The  Danish  Lady  roused  herself  a  little  as  they  helped  her 
to  the  bedside;  she  took  the  sick  man's  hands  in  hers  and 
stroked  them.  Then  after  a  little  while  she  sank  back  into 
helplessness  again. 

Ketill  lay  with  a  smile  on  his  face.  Once  he  tried  to  lift 
his  head,  but  could  not. 

"Only  a  little  while  now,"  he  said.  Then,  glancing 
towards  old  Kata,  he  went  on : 

"Lay  her  hands  on  my  lips,  that  I  may  kiss  them." 

Kata  did  so. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  murmured,  as  he  kissed  the  limp  hands 
of  her  who  had  been  his  wife.  "And  good-bye  for  a  little 
while." 

"It  is  time  now,"  he  said  faintly — "time  to  say  good- 
bye to  all," 


268  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

One  after  another  bent  over  him,  kissed  his  forehead,  and 
received  the  touch  of  his  lips. 

0rlygur  came  last.  He  threw  himself  down  sobbing  on 
the  bed. 

"My  son — my  son,"  the  old  man  whispered.  Then  his  face 
seemed  to  harden,  and  he  lay  as  if  unconscious.  After  a 
while  he  looked  up  again,  and  seemed  trying  to  speak. 
Faintly  at  first,  then  in  a  stronger  voice,  he  spoke  once  more : 

"God— God— my  God!  ..." 

His  hands  twitched  feebly. 

"Are  you  still  there?     Have  they  all  gone?" 

His  hands  dropped  limply  to  his  sides.  Those  near  him 
touched  his  fingers,  but  could  not  speak. 

"I  can  feel  you  are  with  me  still.  But  I  cannot  move 
my  hands.  Is  this  death?" 

He  breathed  with  difficulty. 

Suddenly,  with  his  old,  powerful  voice,  he  cried  aloud: 

"Alma,  Alma!" 

He  raised  himself  up  in  bed  and  then  fell  back.  Guest 
the  One-eyed — a  Guest  on  earth  for  twenty  weary  years — 
was  no  more.  And  Sera  Ketill,  priest,  had  won  the  peace 
he  sought. 

Those  who  watched  and  understood  had  eyes  only  for  the 
man  there  on  the  bed.  None  noticed  the  Danish  Lady. 

"When  her  name  was  called,  Alma  clutched  at  her  heart. 
Now  she  sat  still,  looking  vaguely  round.  Then,  rising,  she 
asked  in  a  new  voice  that  made  the  others  start : 

"Where  am  I?" 

And,  flushing  slightly,  she  went  on : 

"That  was  Ketill's  voice." 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  breast  once  more,  and  sank 
down.  Her  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 

Her  sudden,  unexpected  death  came  with  a  shock  to  the 
others,  and  they  stopped  weeping.  For  a  moment  all  stood 
as  if  turned  to  stone. 

Then  they  lifted  her  up  and  laid  her  on  the  bed  beside  her 
husband.  And  all  knelt  beside  the  bed  in  silent  prayer. 


GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED  269 

The  candle  flickered  in  the  dark,  throwing  a  restless  gleam 
on  the  pale  faces  of  the  dead.  The  darkness  seemed  creeping 
in  to  cover  them. 

For  a  little  all  was  deathly  still. 

Then  old  Kata  rose  and  opened  a  window — "to  let  the 
souls  pass  out."  And,  going  over  to  the  others,  she  knelt 
with  them  beside  the  bed. 

But  the  light  went  out  in  the  draught,  and  darkness  closed 
about  the  living  and  the  dead. 


BOOK  IV 
THE  YOUNG  EAGLE 


CHAPTER  I 

A  PALE  face  showed  behind  a  window  in  a  dimly 
lighted  room.  The  features  were  young,  but  sharply 
marked,  and  the  eyes  had  a  strange,  far-away  look. 
It  was  as  if  they  were  peering  into  life  from  within  the 
portals  of  death,  or  as  if  searching  into  the  great  unknown, 
striving  to  fathom  the  hereafter,  longing  for  peace,  praying 
for  peace,  yet  finding  none.  Finding  only  a  growing  unrest, 
a  torturing  uncertainty  that  grew  and  grew,  an  ever-increas- 
ing agony  of  longing. 

That  is  what  the  night  saw. 

But  the  eyes  behind  the  window  looked  out  over  the  land- 
scape that  lay  spread  before  them  in  shadowy  billows  under 
the  dark  autumn  sky,  seeking  to  recognize  something  here 
and  there.  That  way  should  be  a  homestead;  it  was  there 
in  the  daylight;  surely  it  should  be  visible  now.  But  the 
eyes  looked  in  vain;  the  gazer  found  himself  at  last  imagin- 
ing that  the  great  expanse  of  shadow  was  that  of  a  cloud  on 
which  he  sailed  across  the  sky. 

There  was  a  sort  of  comfort  in  thus  letting  imagination 
run  its  course.  Yet  unconsciously  he  pressed  his  foot  to  the 
floor,  as  if  to  make  sure  of  being  still  on  earth.  Up  in  the 
whirling  ocean  of  space  there  was  no  lasting  foothold  any- 
where. And  yet  it  was  a  pleasant  fancy — to  be  sailing 
through  the  sky.  Clouds  were  things  that  came  and  went, 
and  melted  into  space  under  the  rays  of  the  sun.  When 
this  particular  cloud  on  which  he  rode  should  end,  and  he 
himself  be  hurled  through  space,  where  would  he  land? 
Would  he  land  anywhere  at  all  ? 

He  expected  to  see  the  dark  shadow  change  its  shape,  but 
in  vain.  This  was  a  check;  the  sameness  of  the  outlook 
irritated  him.  Evidently  both  he  and  his  cloud  were  shame- 
fully dull,  that  they  could  not  move  better  than  this. 

273 


274  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

And  he  looked  up  towards  the  heavens,  as  if  to  call  the 
attention  of  his  lazy  cloud  to  its  swifter-moving  fellows  above. 

No  sooner  had  he  done  so,  however,  than  his  flight  of  fancy 
was  forgotten.  There  were  the  stars — and  they  fascinated 
him  in  turn. 

Grey  clouds  spread  their  net  across  the  heavens,  drifting 
rapidly  from  west  to  east,  hiding  and  revealing  the  twinkling 
stars  as  they  raced  by. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  clouds  were  standing 
still,  and  the  stars  themselves  moved  across  the  sky,  crawling 
hurriedly  over  the  meshes  of  the  cloudy  net,  showing  clear 
in  a  blue  space  one  moment  and  vanishing  the  next. 

So  intently  did  he  follow  the  fancied  movement  of  the 
stars  that  in  a  little  time  his  eyes  were  dazzled;  it  seemed 
as  if  he  himself  had  been  drawn  into  a  dance  of  stars. 

He  closed  his  eyes.  And,  as  he  did  so,  sank  into  oblivion, 
with  a  disturbed  yet  sorely  needed  rest. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Abruptly  he  again  became 
conscious  of  his  surroundings.  His  vision  returned  from  its 
wild  wanderings,  and  crept,  as  it  were,  behind  him — he  saw 
himself — a  pale  face  behind  the  window  in  a  dimly  lighted 
room. 

The  sight  came  as  a  shock;  grim  reality  had  taken  the 
place  of  fancy  now.  And  a  sensation  of  horror  came  over 
him — he  started  back  from  the  window  as  if  he  had  seen 
a  ghost. 

His  eyes  fell  upon  the  two  open  coffins,  with  their  white 
draperies,  that  seemed  to  take  shape  as  he  watched  them — 
the  shape  of  what  lay  within.  The  dim  light  of  the  tapers 
helped  to  bring  him  back  to  the  present,  and  even  the  weight 
of  grief  that  came  with  it  brought  in  its  train  a  restfulness 
of  its  own. 

Silently  he  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  at  the  foot  of 
the  coffins,  gazing  at  them  till  the  white  of  the  wrappings 
pained  his  eyes. 

Then,  bending  forward,  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  sobbing.  A 
sense  of  utter  helplessness  came  over  him;  soul  and  sense 
were  dulled. 


CHAPTER  II 

SOMEONE  was  scraping  cautiously  at  the  door. 
He  sprang  from  his  seat,  and  fear  gripped  his  heart 
once  more.     He  rubbed  his   eyes,   realizing  that  he 
had  been  asleep,   and  stared  round  him  to  see  what  had 
wakened  him. 

The  noise  was  renewed,  this  time  with  a  subdued  whine. 
He  grew  calmer  now,  and  opened  the  door. 

A  pair  of  brown  eyes  and  the  sharp  nose  of  a  dog  appeared 
in  the  gloom  of  the  passage.  The  animal  looked  up  at  him 
pleadingly,  waiting  for  leave  to  enter.  And  once  inside, 
it  stopped  still. 

0rlygur  seated  himself  once  more  by  the  coffins,  taking  no 
heed  of  the  dog.  He  had  forgotten  it.  For  the  moment  he 
was  occupied  wholly  with  a  sense  of  dissatisfaction  with  him- 
self ;  time  after  time  that  night  he  had  allowed  himself  to 
be  taken  by  surprise.  First,  he  had  let  fancy  run  riot  in 
his  brain;  then,  on  coming  to  himself,  he  had  given  way  to 
a  sense  of  fear;  sleep  had  overcome  him,  and  on  waking  he 
had  allowed  himself  to  give  way  to  fear  again.  He  knew 
there  was  nothing  to  fear;  he  was  no  coward — it  was  only 
when  taken  by  surprise.  .  .  . 

Involuntarily  he  glanced  towards  the  door,  where  the  dog 
had  lain  down.  A  pair  of  bright,  watchful  eyes  met  his, 
and  the  thought  flashed  through  his  mind  that  no  human 
being  could  be  more  faithful  than  this  dog.  He  beckoned 
it  to  him,  and  the  animal  promptly  obeyed.  It  crept  up  close 
to  him  and  laid  its  head  upon  his  knees,  licking  his  hand 
affectionately. 

For  a  moment  he  enjoyed  the  kindly  touch.  Then  his 
thoughts  went  wandering  again. 

"I  can  never  be  happy  again,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "I 
cannot  understand  how  any  one  can  be  happy  now.  What 

275 


276  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

pleasure  is  there  in  anything?  Everything  dies  at  last. 
Eternity — the  everlasting — it  is  terrible  to  think  of.  And 
all  one 's  life  but  a  drop  in  the  ocean — what  does  it  matter  if 
we  live  or  die?  And  our  joys  and  sorrows — what  are  they, 
after  all?  All  becomes  insignificant.  Some  are  glad  when 
the  sun  shines;  others  are  glad  without  knowing  why.  It  is 
simple  foolishness.  Have  they  never  seen  a  man  die?  Do 
they  forget  that  eie  day  they,  too,  must  die? — die  and 
rot  .  .  ." 

The  tears  flowed  down  his  cheeks,  but  he  did  not  move; 
his  features  were  set  as  though  already  stiffening  in  death. 

' '  Die  and  rot  in  the  grave.  ..." 

And  he  breathed  softly,  as  if  breathing  in  the  air  of  death 
in  the  room,  while  the  tears  still  flowed. 

Suddenly  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  pictured  himself  dead  and 
rotting — his  flesh  pale  and  bloodless — turning  green  and 
ghastly — falling  from  the  bones,  hanging  in  strips  from  the 
fingers  and  stripping  like  a  mask  from  the  face  to  bare  the 
clenched,  grinning  teeth. 

He  opened  his  eyes  with  a  start;  an  icy  shiver  passed 
through  him,  and  he  clenched  his  hands.  But  he  did  not 
move  from  his  seat. 

"God  in  heaven,"  he  thought,  "I  am  going  mad!" 

His  tears  ceased  to  flow.  And  in  a  moment  he  was  cool  and 
collected  once  more.  It  was  as  if  the  trouble  had  passed 
from  him,  leaving  only  a  deep  earnestness. 

And  in  unconscious  effort  to  protect  himself  his  thoughts 
turned  towards  the  woman  he  loved. 

He  saw  her  now,  in  his  mind ;  her  lovely  figure,  her  masses 
of  golden  hair,  her  bright,  smiling  face,  and  her  eyes,  that 
spoke  so  eloquently  when  they  met  his.  Involuntarily  he 
smiled. 

But  no  sooner  was  he  conscious  of  having  smiled  than  the 
joy  was  gone,  and  his  face  relapsed  into  the  same  cold,  sad 
look. 

"If  she  had  never  seen  me,"  he  thought.  "If  she  had 
lived  far  away,  or  in  some  other  time — then  her  eyes  would 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  277 

have  smiled  at  the  sight  of  another  as  they  do  now  for  me. 
What  is  it  all  worth  after  all  ?  An  accident — a  casual  chance. 
Or  could  it  be  that,  even  if  both  she  and  I  had  been  different, 
we  should  have  loved  each  other  still  ? ' ' 

Tears  came  to  his  eyes. 

"I  can  never  be  happy,"  he  thought  again.  "Once  I  was 
always  happy;  always  sure  that  the  future  would  bring  joy, 
more  joy  .  .  .  and  I  never  dreamed  but  that  it  was  good  and 
happy  to  live.  Now  I  am  changed.  I  cannot  understand  it 
all.  Everything  seems  different — even  my  thoughts  are  new 
to  me.  All  changed  ...  I  am  like  a  stranger  to  myself. 
And  why — what  is  the  cause  of  it  all?  Because  my  father 
that  I  believed  to  be  dead  comes  home  alive — and  dies." 

He  sat  staring  before  him 

Once  more  he  surveyed  the  varied  phases  through  which 
he  had  passed  from  the  time  when  ten  days  before  he  had 
first  come  upon  Guest  the  One-eyed  in  the  mountains — not 
knowing  then  that  the  wise  and  kindly  wanderer,  beloved 
of  all,  was  no  other  than  his  father,  the  hated  Sera  Ketill, 
who  had  disappeared  twenty  years  back,  and  was  looked  on 
as  dead — from  tha,t  first  meeting  until  now,  when  he  sat 
keeping  watch  over  two  corpses;  that  of  the  beggar  who  had 
been  twenty  years  on  pilgrimage  to  expiate  his  sins,  and  that 
of  his  wife,  the  Danish  Lady  at  Hof,  who  during  those  twenty 
years  had  paid  the  penalty  of  her  husband's  crimes,  only  to 
forgive  him  at  the  last  and  follow  him  on  his  last  long  journey 
across  the  river  of  Death. 

It  was  a  week  now  since  the  two  had  died.  And  they  were 
to  be  buried  next  day. 

0rlygur  had  begged  and  received  permission  to  watch  over 
them  on  this  their  last  night  on  earth.  It  had  been  his  great 
desire  to  keep  that  vigil  alone,  for  he  hoped  that  the  night 
would  bring  him  some  revelation  of  himself;  his  feelings, 
his  strength,  his  will. 

The  succession  of  unexpected  happenings,  the  complete 
revolution  in  his  inner  and  outer  life,  had  left  him  in  a  state 
of  vague  unrest,  a  prey  to  dreams  and  longings  hitherto  un- 


278  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

known  to  him.  A  strange  and  mysterious  power  seemed 
hovering  over  him,  possessing  him  completely.  All  life 
seemed  changed. 

The  desire  for  common  worldly  pleasures  and  success,  the 
thought  of  being  looked  up  to  by  his  fellow-men — all  seemed 
empty  and  meaningless  now — or  even  sinful. 

The  dying  words  of  Guest  the  One-eyed  had  burnt  them- 
selves into  his  heart,  filling  him  with  remorse  and  spiritual 
unrest.  What  was  it  he  had  said  about  a  successor — one  to 
carry  on  his  work — to  show  his  fellows  that  the  greatest  joy 
in  life  was  a  pilgrimage  in  poverty  and  humility,  setting 
aside  all  worldly  things  ?  .  .  . 

0rlygur  could  not  forget — the  dying  man's  voice;  his  in- 
tonation remained  firmly  impressed  on  his  mind ;  he  saw  again 
the  look  of  sadness  on  the  wrinkled  face  as  the  wanderer  lay 
back  on  his  pillow. 

And  to  him,  the  son  of  the  aged  pilgrim,  it  was  as  the 
opening  of  a  new  world  of  thought.  He  had  promised  him- 
self to  take  up  the  task,  to  continue  the  work  his  father  had 
begun,  without  a  thought  of  the  difficulties  that  might  lie  in 
his  way. 

As  long  as  the  undertaking  remained  as  but  an  inward 
emotion,  a  consciousness  of  his  intention,  burning  within  him 
like  a  sacred  flame  that  consumed  all  gloomy  doubts,  so  long 
did  he  feel  himself  uplifted  in  soul,  raised  far  above  to  a 
height  where  his  bereavement  itself  seemed  but  a  little  thing. 
He  almost  felt  that  in  thus  bowing  to  his  father's  will  and 
vowing  to  accomplish  his  desire,  he  had  saved  the  weary 
pilgrim  from  the  horror  of  death. 

And  for  a  while  the  difficulties  of  realization  never  crossed 
his  mind. 

At  times  he  did  remember  that  he  was  a  lover.  But  the 
self-reproach  with  which  he  realized  that  he  had  for  a  time 
forgotten  his  love  passed  off  again:  a  momentary  remem- 
brance, no  more. 

During  the  first  days  of  this  his  new  passion  he  was  as 
one  entranced,  lifted  above  himself  in  a  fervour  of  resolve. 
His  soul  was  possessed  by  one  thought,  by  a  mighty  dazzling 


THE  YOUNG  EAGM;  279 

dream.  A  glorious  ray  of  golden  light  streamed  into  his 
mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  His  soul  answered  to  but 
one  note — the  mighty  theme  of  self-sacrifice  that  rang  through 
it. 

Intoxicated  with  joy,  he  passed  the  long  nights  without 
sleep.  At  first  the  new,  strange  exultation  more  than  out- 
weighed the  physical  strain,  and  the  grey  days  that  came  and 
went  seemed  bright  and  beautiful.  He  had  never  known  what 
it  was  to  suffer  from  sleeplessness;  nights  without  sleep 
seemed  now  but  an  added  treasure,  an  extended  scope  for 
happy  consciousness.  But  soon  the  climax  came,  and  his  feast 
of  dreams  was  at  an  end. 

The  days  lost  their  beauty.  He  was  weary  and  irritable 
from  the  moment  he  rose;  he  longed  for  night  to  come,  for 
peace  and  solitude  in  which  to  dream  again.  But  when  night 
came  and  he  sought  to  gather  up  once  more  the  threads 
of  his  imaginings,  his  brain  was  dull,  and  his  mind  refused 
to  frame  new  thoughts.  At  first  he  tried  to  content  himself 
with  merely  recalling  what  he  had  dreamed  before.  It  satis- 
fied him  for  a  while,  but  a  repetition  showed  the  things  once 
glorious  as  dull  and  faded;  he  could  hardly  understand  how 
he  had  ever  been  so  moved  by  what  now  seemed  vague  and 
distant.  And  with  sorrow  in  his  heart,  as  for  something  lost, 
he  fell  asleep.  Next  day  he  resolved  to  watch  the  last  night 
by  the  dead,  and  had  obtained  his  wish  to  keep  the  vigil  alone. 

It  had  not  dawned  upon  him  that  he  had  already  been 
defeated — that  the  life  he  had  resolved  upon  was  a  thing 
foreign  to  him,  with  no  root  in  his  soul,  an  abrupt  departure 
from  his  natural  bent  and  his  former  ways.  He  did  not 
know  that  suffering  was  a  gift  of  Fate,  granted  to  many, 
yet  to  few  in  such  extent  that  they  are  able  to  forget  their 
own  good  and  ill,  and  live  for  others  wholly.  He  did  not 
know  that  it  is  only  the  chosen  of  Sorrow  who  are  freed  from 
all  thought  of  self. 

Even  had  he  grasped  the  truth,  it  would  not  have  helped 
him  to  relinquish  his  ideas  and  admit  they  were  but  weavings 
of  an  over-sensitive  mind.  His  nature  was  too  stubborn  to 
give  in  without  a  bitter  struggle. 


280  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

And  his  doubts  did  not  come  openly  to  begin  with,  but  in 
disguise;  only  later,  after  long  uncertainty  and  pondering, 
did  they  reveal  themselves  as  what  they  were. 

Irresolution,  following  on  the  tense  pitch  of  excitement, 
rendered  him  distrustful  of  himself  to  an  unwonted  degree. 

He  sat  now  with  bowed  head,  as  if  listening  intently  in 
a  world  of  silence.  And  it  seemed  as  if  the  silence  spoke 
to  him.  No  natural  utterance,  this  sound  that  reached  his 
ears,  but  an  unknown  tongue,  a  passing  murmur  of  some- 
thing mysterious — a  wave  that  rose  and  fell,  now  loud,  now 
low. 

He  strove  with  all  his  sense  to  find  some  meaning — at 
times  it  seemed  as  if  words  and  sentences  were  there,  but 
disconnected,  without  any  purport  he  could  understand. 

Breathlessly  he  listened.  His  brain  throbbed;  all  his 
faculties  were  concentrated  in  one  present  effort;  this  thing 
that  was  being  told  him  now — he  must  hear  it,  understand  it. 
That  was  all  his  task.  Perhaps  it  might  solve  all  the  riddles 
of  his  questioning — give  him  a  key  to  life. 

And  suddenly  his  sub-conscious  mind  came  to  his  aid, 
whispering  some  lines  from  a  poem  by  Hjalmar  a  Bolu.  And 
in  relief  he  murmured  the  words  to  himself,  lifting  his  head 
and  breathing  freely  once  more: 

"If  Thou  wilt  not  hear  my  words, 
Divine,  eternal  grace, 
Then  shall,  the  burning  cry  of  my  blood 
Sunder  the  heavens  about  Thee." 


T 


CHAPTER  III 

(HE  stars  in  the  east  grew  fainter,  till  they  paled  into 
nothingness,  and  the  day  rose  slowly  over  the  hills. 
The  clouds  had  gone,  save  for  a  heavy  bank  that 
hung  becalmed  in  the  west.  Daylight  spread  abroad,  and  the 
blue  of  the  sky  grew  brighter,  until  it  almost  lost  itself  in  a 
shimmering  white. 

A  strangely  beautiful  morning;  the  earth  seemed  aglow 
with  such  delight  of  day  as  is  only  seen  when  its  face  is 
furrowed  by  autumn.  The  heather  shone  blood-red  on  the 
hillside,  as  if  striving  to  show  the. world  that  its  glow  was 
that  of  life,  and  not  of  death.  The  waters  of  fjord  and  stream 
were  calm  and  still  as  if  storm  and  turbulence  were  strangers 
there.  Even  the  unmown  grass  of  the  fields  was  smiling  with 
dewdrops  on  every  yellowing  stalk  and  blade  reflecting  the 
bright  rays.  And  over  the  close-cropped  stretches  where 
the  grass  had  been  cut,  the  dew  lay  in  a  glistening  carpet. 
Not  a  sound  on  the  stillness  of  the  air,  not  so  much  as  the 
cry  of  a  sheep  or  the  neighing  of  a  horse. 

Not  till  the  farm  hands  were  astir,  with  an  opening  of 
doors  and  the  sound  of  human  voices,  was  the  spell  broken, 
and  the  almost  unworldly  stillness  gave  place  to  the  work  and 
life  of  common  day. 

The  first  to  open  his  door  that  morning  was  Ormarr  a 
Borg.  And  he  remained  standing  with  bowed  head  close 
outside  the  house.  He  was  not  thinking  of  the  world  of 
nature  about  him,  and  paid  no  heed  to  the  glory  of  the  morn- 
ing sun  that  shone  on  his  white  hair  and  slight,  stooping 
figure.  His  features  were  strained,  and  the  pallor  of  his 
face,  the  redness  of  his  eyes,  showed  that  he  had  not  slept. 
He  stood  a  little  while,  then  folded  his  thin  hands,  with 
the  fingers  that  were  still  those  of  a  violinist,  bowed  his 

281 


282  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

head,  and  with  closed  eyes  and  compressed  lips  prayed  the 
Lord's  Prayer. 

Suddenly  he  drew  himself  up,  passed  his  hands  over  his 
face,  and  smiled. 

"Strange,"  he  murmured.  "Why  should  I  have  done 
that  now  ?  I  have  said  that  prayer  aloud  in  church  for  years, 
and  at  home  with  the  rest.  But  I  have  not  said  it  by  myself 
since  I  can  remember. ' ' 

The  smile  left  his  face,  and  he  grew  serious.  "What  is 
more  strange,"  he  continued,  "is  that  I  should  feel  almost 
ashamed  of  it  myself  after." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Are  we  afraid  of  ourselves  more 
than  of  others?" 

He  raised  his  head  and  glanced  round,  seeking  for  some- 
thing else  to  occupy  his  mind.  He  noticed  the  beauty  of  the 
day,  and  felt  the  peace  of  it  with  grateful  relief. 

Then  he  turned,  walked  through  the  passage,  and  softly 
entered  the  room  where  the  dead  lay. 

0rlygur  was  seated  by  the  coffins,  his  elbows  on  his  knees 
and  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  His  dog  lay  at  his  feet, 
asleep. 

As  Onnarr  entered,  he  looked  up ;  his  eyes  showed  that  he 
had  been  sleeping.  Ormarr  smiled — a  strangely  gentle  smile 
— but  made  no  sign  of  having  seen  that  the  boy  had  slept. 
But  0rlygur  sprang  to  his  feet,  flushing  hotly,  and  answered 
only  with  an  inaudible  murmur  when  Ormarr  bade  him  good 
morning. 

Ormarr  stepped  quietly  across  the  room  and  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  above  the  bodies.  Then,  turning  to  0rlygur, 
he  said,  with  great  tenderness : 

"Go  in  and  rest,  lad,  till  it  is  time  to  start." 

0rlygur's  face  had  paled  again;  he  looked  straight  in  the 
other's  eyes. 

"No!"  he  said.  And  his  tone  was  so  harsh,  so  defiant, 
that  Ormarr  wondered  what  could  be  in  his  mind.  Possibly 
the  lad  was  hurt  at  the  proposal  coming  a  moment  after  he 
had  awakened  from  sleep. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,"  said  Ormarr  quietly. 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  283 

"I  know,"  answered  0rlygur  in  a  gentler  tone.  "Don't 
misunderstand  me.  I  only  meant  that — we  can  always  get 
all  the  sleep  we  need — more  than  enough." 

Silently  the  two  men  left  the  room  and  went  out  into  the 
open. 

Ormarr  was  anxious  for  a  quiet  talk  with  0rlygur,  whose 
manner  lately  had  been  strange.  He  had  formed  his  own 
opinion  as  to  the  reason — but  that  last  defiant  "  No ! "  and 
the  frank,  conciliatory  tone  of  the  following  words  seemed 
to  require  some  further  explanation. 

It  had  occurred  to  Ormarr  that,  as  he  had  never  himself 
referred  to  the  girl  Snebiorg,  0rlygur  might  perhaps  imagine 
he  was  hostile  to  any  union  between  them,  whereas  nothing 
could  be  farther  from  his  mind;  had  not  the  boy's  father  on 
his  death-bed  given  him  his  blessing?  Ormarr  was  eager  to 
make  his  attitude  clear  in  regard  to  this  at  least. 

As  they  walked,  he  studied  the  young  man's  face.  There 
was  a  strange,  far-away  look  in  his  eyes  that  baffled  him. 

He  had  intended  to  open  the  matter  directly,  but  somehow 
he  felt  it  impossible  to  do  so  now.  And,  fearing  lest  0rlygur 
should  notice  his  scrutiny,  he  looked  away,  and  said  casually : 

"The  sun  has  come  to  warm  the  graves  for  them,  it 
seems. ' ' 

0rlygur  glanced  up  at  the  sun,  and  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment; then  he  answered  absently: 

"Yes.     The  sun  must  have  been  his  best  friend  in  life." 

The  old  man  turned  towards  him;  the  tone  and  manner 
.in  which  he  had  spoken  were  unusual. 

"Those  in  misfortune,"  he  said  softly,  "have  but  few 
friends  as  a  rule." 

0rlygur's  eyes  took  on  the  same  fixed,  determined  look 
they  had  shown  in  the  chamber  of  death  a  little  before. 

"He  was  not  one  of  those  in  misfortune,"  he  answered 
steadily,  with  a  dignity  beyond  his  years;  "he  was  more 
fortunate  than  all." 

Ormarr  looked  at  him  with  his  wise  old  eyes,  as  if  to 
read  his  innermost  thoughts.  But  there  was  a  tremor  at 
his  heart.  "This  is  Faith,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "Faith 


284  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

in  something  that  seems  sure  beyond  all  doubt.  It  is  the 
first  time  it  has  come  to  him  in  life.  If  the  boy  were  a 
Catholic,  now,  he  would  turn  monk;  he  is  convinced  at 
this  moment  that  self-abnegation  is  the  one  true  way.  God 
alone  knows  the  workings  of  his  mind,  but  it  is  a  danger- 
ous crisis  to  pass  through." 

And,  looking  away  from  him  again,  Ormarr  pursued  his 
own  train  of  thought. 

"He  is  hardly  what  one  would  call  of  a  religious  bent. 
That  is  well.  It  may  be  only  a  slight  attack ;  perhaps  it  will 
pass  off.  After  all,  he  is  still  a  child  in  many  ways.  But 
he  needs  some  one  to  help  him — and  must  not  know  it. ' ' 

He  smiled  at  a  sudden  thought.  ' '  I  am  glad  I  caught  him 
asleep." 

They  reached  the  wall  of  the  enclosure,  and  stopped.  Then, 
as  if  he  had  been  thinking  of  this  all  the  time,  Ormarr  began : 

"There  was  something  I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  I  would 
have  left  it  till  later,  but  it  is  best  to  get  it  said.  It  is  some- 
thing that  concerns  you  deeply — I  mean  about  the  girl. ' ' 

0rlygur  started  slightly;  Ormarr  detected  at  once  that  he 
was  ill  at  ease.  But  he  said  nothing,  and  Ormarr  went  on : 

"You  have  said  nothing  to  me  about  any  relationship  with 
her,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well.  But  from  what  your  dear 
father  said,  you  love  one  another,  and  you  yourself  are  fully 
determined  to  marry  her.  Is  that  so  ? " 

0rlygur  was  so  taken  aback  that  he  was  at  a  loss  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  felt  that  there  were  obstacles  in  the  way,  that  he 
ought  to  make  some  objection  now.  But  he  could  do  no 
more  than  stammer  out  a  low-voiced  "Yes." 

Ormarr  was  satisfied.  He  had  gained  something  at  once. 
And  without  appearing  to  have  marked  the  young  man's 
hesitation,  still  less  divine  its  cause,  he  continued : 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  see  any  reason  for  delay.  Once  the 
matter  has  been  decided,  the  sooner  it  is  accomplished,  the 
better.  I  will  confess  that  at  first  I  was  not  altogether  dis- 
posed to  approve  of  it.  You  may  have  noticed  that — and 
for  that  reason  hesitated  to  tell  me  of  your  intentions.  But, 
now,  I  can  only  say  that  both  your  mother  and  myself  are 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  285 

looking  forward  with  pleasure  to  your  marriage.  It  will 
be  the  happiest  day  of  the  life  that  yet  remains  to  us  when 
we  can  see  you  wedded  to  the  woman  you  love.  And  as  far 
as  we  are  concerned,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  taking 
over  the  place  here  in  the  spring.  "We  are  both  a  little  weary, 
though  we  are  not  so  very  old.  You  will  understand  that 
ours  has  not  been  a  restful  life,  or  a  very  happy  one,  and 
it  will  be  a  double  pleasure  to  see  you  happily  settled.  All 
that  we  wish  for  is  to  end  our  days  in  peace.  And  so — 
God  bless  you.  If  our  wishes  could  secure  it,  Borg  should  be 
once  more  a  home  of  happiness  and  peace." 

Tears  rose  to  Ormarr's  eyes  as  he  spoke,  and  his  hand 
trembled  as  he  offered  it.  He  was  deeply  moved,  partly  by 
memories  of  the  past  that  rose  up  in  his  mind,  and  also  by 
the  thought  that  the  young  man's  happiness  depended  on  the 
success  of  his,  Ormarr  's,  own  stratagem  before  it  was  too  late. 

0rlygur  grasped  the  hand  held  out  to  him.  He  wept  at 
seeing  his  foster-father's  emotion,  and  also  because  he  felt 
that  he  was  here  being  forced  into  something ;  he  was  in  a  way 
defeated.  But  at  the  same  time  the  picture  of  Snebiorg  rose 
to  his  mind ;  it  seemed  almost  as  if  she  were  there  with  them. 
What  was  he  to  do?  Sooner  or  later  he  must  either  prove 
false  to  her  or  to  the  promise  he  had  silently  given  by  his 
father's  death-bed.  For  the  moment  he  could  come  to  no 
decision — he  could  only  weep.  His  helplessness  pained  him. 
It  was  terrible  to  think  that  he  must  choose  between  giving 
up  his  love  or  betray  his  promise. 

He  held  Ormarr's  hand  in  his,  and  strove  to  speak,  but 
could  say  nothing  for  tears. 

Say  something  he  must.    And  at  length  he  stammered  out : 

"Not  now — I  cannot.  Another  time.  But  not — not  this 
spring. ' ' 

He  let  go  the  other's  hand,  and  hurried  away,  with  bowed 
head.  But  the  old  man  stood  still,  looking  after  him  with 
tearful  eyes. 

"Poor  lad,"  he  murmured.  "But — thank  God,  he  loves 
her.  And  that  will  save  him." 

Thoughtfully  Ormarr  walked  back  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  leaving  0rlygur,  Ormarr  went  in  to  see  to  the 
preparations  for  the  funeral.  0rlygur  went  off  to 
a  corner  of  the  enclosure  where  he  would  be  out  of 
sight  of  the  house.  There  he  stood,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
and^  looking  out  over  the  valley. 

His  tears  had  ceased,  and  a  strange  calm  crept  over  him. 

"So  it  was  that,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "It  was  that 
I  could  not  understand.  But  I  see  it  now.  I  must  choose 
between  her  and — my  mission." 

The  idea  involved  in  this  last  word  made  him  start. 

"My  mission — but  how  do  I  know  it  is  that?  Anyhow, 
whether  or  no,  it  does  not  matter.  I  have  promised — I  have 
given  my  word  to  one  who  is  now  dead — and  that  my  father. 
I  must  either  break  my  word  to  him,  or  desert  her. ' ' 

He  gazed  thoughtfully  up  at  the  mountains. 

"Those  mountains  there — how  wonderful  they  are.  Peak 
after  peak  rising  to  heaven,  and  sweet  grassy  slopes  between. 
But  loveliest  looking  down,  on  to  the  glassy  lakes.  Borgar- 
f  jail,  with  its  great  masses  of  rock,  rising  steeply  up  towards 
the  sky.  No  one  has  ever  set  foot  there — only  the  eagles  have 
ever  reached  those  heights." 

The  look  in  his  eyes  faded,  and  he  stood  gazing  vacantly 
before  him. 

"Desert  her,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "She  who  leaned 
towards  me,  and  touched  my  cheek  with  her  own.  How  could 
I  think  of  it!  She  could  never  be  faithless.  How  would 
she  look  if  she  learned?  .  .  .  Oh,  the  sight  would  kill  me. 
Nothing  more  terrible  to  see  than  the  eyes  of  a  creature  that 
has  lost  what  it  hoped  for  and  believed  in.  To  see  that  in 
her  eyes  ..." 

He  laughed — a' cold,  forced  laugh. 

"What  a  coward  I  am,  after  all.  I  can  think  of  leaving 

286 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  287 

her,  forsaking  her,  and  breaking  promises  so  sacred  that  they 
could  not  even  be  uttered  in  words.  But  I  dare  not  even 
think  of  meeting  her  eyes  when  she  knows.  What  a  cur  I 
must  be — and  I — I  would  go  out  into  the  world  as  an 
apostle. ' ' 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  madness.  How  could  I  ever  bring  peace  to  any  soul, 
when  I  start  my  pilgrimage  by  robbing  her  who  trusted  me 
of  her  heart's  peace?" 

An  evil  light  showed  in  his  eyes. 

' '  I  wonder  .  .  .  would  she  really  suffer  so  very  much  after 
all?  .  .  ." 

He  clenched  his  fists. 

"Oh,  I  deserve  to  be  whipped!  And,  in  any  case,  I  am 
not  worthy  of  her  love.  It  seems  I  am  growing  into  a  rogue. 
I  dare  not  look  her  in  the  face  now.  Her  eyes — so  pure 
.  .  .  and  her  soul,  clean  and  free  from  any  evil  thought. 
And  she — she  trusts  me — trusts  me  ...  it  is  horrible ! ' ' 

He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I  might  go  to  her,  and  tell  her  everything.  She  would 
understand.  But — her  heart  would  feel  but  one  thing  of  it 
all — that  we  must  part.  And  that  is  all  that  my  heart  can 
feel  now." 

He  sighed,  but  in  a  moment  his  face  hardened  again. 

"This  is  temptation.  And  I  was  nearly  giving  way. 
Nearly  gave  in  at  the  first  onset.  I  am  too  weak.  The  first 
thing  to  do  is  to  take  some  decisive  step,  to  cut  off  all  retreat. 
But  how?" 

A  thought  came  suddenly  to  his  mind,  and  he  shuddered. 

"Today — at  the  graveside.  Say  it  there,  say  it  for  all 
to  hear;  swear  it  ...  and  then  I  shall  be  bound  for  life, 
for  ever.  And  then — what  then?" 

His  whole  body  trembled;  his  teeth  chattered;  he  cried 
to  God  in  his  agony  of  doubt.  But  he  felt  that  his  prayer 
was  not  sincere.  And  with  faltering  step  he  made  his  way 
back  to  the  house. 

A  voice  within  him  spoke,  urging  him  earnestly,  clearly: 

"Do  not  do  it.    It  is  more  than  you  can  keep.    You  may 


288  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

say  the  words,  but  you  will  not  mean  what  you  say  from 

your  heart.     What  can  you  do  or  say  ? ' ' 

He  would  not  listen,  but  he  tried  in  vain  to  disregard  the 

voice  that  would  be  heard.     He  staggered  like  a  drunken 

man ;  his  strength  failed  him. 

Then  the  first  voice  died  away  and  another  spoke  scornfully : 

"You  will  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  that  is  all." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  turned  pale.     But  only  for  a 

moment.     Then  he  walked  on  with  a  firm  step. 

"That   was  vanity,"   he   murmured.     "It   was   only  my 

fear  of  what  others  would  think.     Now  I  know  what  I  have 

to  do." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  funeral  of  Guest  the  One-eyed  and  the  Danish 
Lady  was  to  take  place  at  noon. 
From  the  time  0rlygur  returned  to  the  house  to 
the  setting  out  of  the  funeral  train,  the  hours  had  passed 
without  his  knowing  it.     Great  numbers  of  people  flocked 
to  the  house;  all  greeted  him  when  they  arrived.     Some  he 
greeted  in  return;  others  he  did  not  appear  to  notice  at  all. 
He  was  strangely  absent  in  his  manner,  but  this  was  readily 
forgiven,  as  being  due  to  his  grief  at  the  sudden  loss. 

When  he  was  called  in  to  bid  a  last  farewell  to  the  mortal 
remains  before  the  coffins  were  closed,  he  burst  into  a  violent 
fit  of  sobbing.  His  meditations  of  the  night  before  on  the 
emptiness  of  worldly  things,  the  hopelessness  of  life,  returned 
to  him  vividly.  He  was  conscious,  too,  that  it  was  not  only 
the  death  of  these  two  who  had  gone  that  pained  him  most. 
He  saw  himself  as  a  miserably  selfish  creature.  At  such 
a  time,  there  should  be  no  place  in  his  heart  for  other  feeling 
than  sorrow  at  the  double  bereavement,  and  yet  in  fact  he 
was  only  sorry  for  himself.  He  despised  himself;  he  felt 
that  if  others  could  read  his  heart  they  would  look  down  on 
him  in  scorn.  Their  word  of  sympathy  and  consolation  stung 
him;  he  shrank  from  the  thought  of  the  ceremony  to  come, 
when  he  would  be  forced  to  take  part  with  all  these  others. 

Why  not  bury  our  dear  ones  quietly,  in  some  secluded 
spot?  Why  make  an  exhibition  of  one's  grief  before  the 
world?  In  his  own  case,  it  was  the  more  intolerable,  since 
his  grief  was  in  reality  not  for  the  dead. 

He  heard  the  lids  screwed  down,  and  stood  weeping,  with 
his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he  became  aware  of 
a  stir  in  the  room,  and  looked  up.  People  were  standing 
round  with  Prayer  Books  in  their  hands,  turning  the  pages 
to  find  the  hymn  that  was  to  be  sung. 

289 


290  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

The  priest,  whom  he  had  not  noticed  before,  was  there 
standing  by  the  coffins,  book  in  hand. 

0rlygur  again  pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes.  The 
priest  was  speaking,  but  he  paid  no  heed  to  what  was  being 
said,  and  continued  to  weep  silently. 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  and  the  bearers  prepared  to  move. 
A  psalm  was  to  be  sung  as  the  coffins  were  carried  out. 

0rlygur  dried  his  eyes  and  hurried  away,  all  moving  aside 
respectfully  to  let  him  pass.  He  ground  his  teeth,  and  could 
hardly  refrain  from  crying  out. 

"They  should  spit  on  me,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "It  is 
no  more  than  I  deserve.  I  am  unworthy  of  their  sympathy — 
I  do  not  even  care  for  it!"  For  a  moment  he  felt  as  if  he 
must  shout  the  thought  aloud. 

Outside  the  house  some  one  handed  him  the  reins  of  his 
horse;  the  animal  stood  there  ready  saddled.  He  stood  be- 
side it,  one  arm  thrown  over  the  animal's  neck.  The  horse 
rubbed  itself  affectionately  against  him,  as  if  inviting  the 
customary  caress.  But  he  took  no  heed,  and  remained  stand- 
ing motionless.  His  dog  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  horse,  and 
looked  up ;  the  two  animals  exchanged  greetings  in  their  own 
way,  sniffing  at  each  other. 

The  coffins  were  to  be  carried  by  horses,  two  to  each  burden. 
The  first  pair  were  brought  forward,  and  planks  slung  be- 
tween them.  Then  a  psalm  was  sung,  and  the  first  coffin 
fastened  in  its  place. 

When  both  were  thus  secured,  the  train  moved  off,  the 
mourners  and  followers  leading  their  horses  until  the  psalm 
was  at  an  end.  Then  all  mounted,  and  rode  on  in  silence 
towards  the  vicarage  at  Hof . 

0rlygur  rode  behind  the  second  coffin,  gazing  out  over  the 
country  with  tear-stained  eyes. 

"It  all  looks  strange,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "As  if  it 
were  there  only  for  a  time.  Or  is  it  only  myself  that  am 
become  a  stranger  ?  My  mind  that  has  so  changed  that  noth- 
ing in  it  now  can  last?  It  seems  so.  We  see  things  accord- 
ing to  the  mood  of  our  own  mind.  I  seem  like  a  stone  set 
rolling,  knowing  nothing  of  where  it  will  stop. 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  291 

"Not  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  compared  with,  either.  A 
rolling  stone  must  needs  be  on  the  downward  track.  Well, 
after  all,  most  comparisons  have  a  weakness  somewhere.  A 
stone  rolling  down  from  barren  mountains  to  a  grassy  valley, 
where  it  finds  a  softer  bed,  has  surely  changed  for  the  better. 
But  my  path  lies  the  opposite  way.  And  no  one  ever  knew 
a  stone  roll  upward.  Only  the  glowing  rock,  hurled  from 
the  bowels  of  the  earth  by  a  volcano,  comes  to  a  rest  in  the 
mountains  after  an  upward  flight.  Oh,  what  nonsense!" 
he  broke  off.  ' '  I  am  not  a  stone. 

' '  Or,  at  least,  it  is  only  my  heart  that  is  of  stone, ' '  he  went 
on  bitterly.  ' '  Why  can  I  feel  no  real  grief  at  my  loss  ?  Why 
is  there  room  in  my  heart  for  all  these  things  on  such  a  day 
as  this  ?  Am  I  worse  than  other  people,  I  wonder  ?  I  do  not 
feel  unkindly  towards  any  one.  Or  is  it  that  thinking  of 
sorrow  stifles1  the  real  sorrow  itself  ?  If  she  were  dead  ..." 

He  turned  pale  at  the  thought,  and  tears  flowed  from  his 
eyes. 

"God  in  heaven!  That  would  mean  death  to  me — to  live 
would  be  impossible.  Her  body  to  decay,  her  golden  hair 
to  be  soiled  by  earth — her  eyes  lifeless  and  dull.  ..." 

His  heart  beat  as  if  it  would  burst,  and  he  shivered. 

"Death  is  disgusting,"  he  thought. 

Suddenly  he  ceased  to  weep,  and  a  silence  seemed  to  fill 
him. 

"I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  her  as  dead,"  he  thought. 
"And  yet  I  have  planned  to  do  that  which  will  ruin  her  life 
— to  kill  her  love,  and  strike  her  soul  the  cruellest  blow  that 
any  human  being  can  inflict  upon  another.  What  a  desperate 
tangle  it  all  is.  Would  it  not  be  better  for  her  to  die? 
Would  it  not  be  better  if  I  were  to  end  her  life — kill  her  at 
once?  Surely  it  would.  But  it  was  not  her  I  was  thinking 
of.  I  was  only  thinking  of  myself;  not  of  what  would  be 
best  for  her,  but  of  what  would  hurt  me  least.  And  if  it 
were  better  for  her  to  die,  then  what  I  am  about  to  do  is 
a  greater  crime  than  if  I  took  her  life.  ..." 

0rlygur  was  so  deep  in  thought  that  he  did  not  observe 
the  progress  of  the  party  until  they  had  reached  the  church- 


292  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

yard,  and  the  others  dismounted.  Only  when  the  coffin  in 
front,  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed,  was  lowered  to  the  ground 
did  he  come  to  himself  and  get  down  from  his  horse. 

His  last  thoughts  had  almost  stunned  him ;  his  brain  seemed 
incapable  of  normal  action.  As  if  in  a  trance  he  followed 
the  coffins  into  the  church,  and  remained  standing  with  bowed 
head  while  the  psalms  were  sung  and  the  priest  delivered  his 
oration.  He  noticed  nothing  of  what  was  passing  round  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  now  they  would  be  at  the  graveside; 
the  coffins  would  be  lowered,  and  then,  as  was  the  custom,  he 
would  be  expected  to  say  something  himself. 

What  should  he  say  ?  There  was  no  clear  idea  in  his  mind 
— well,  no  doubt  something  would  occur  to  him  when  the 
moment  came.  What  he  said  did  not  matter  much,  as  long 
as  he  said  something. 

The  coffins  were  brought  out,  and  the  mourners  gathered 
close  round  the  double  grave.  0rlygur  stood  just  behind 
the  mound  of  earth  that  had  been  thrown  up. 

The  coffins  were  lowered  into  the  earth,  the  mourners  sing- 
ing and  weeping ;  the  priest  cast  earth  into  the  grave,  and  the 
last  hymn  was  sung.  Mechanically  0rlygur  stepped  up  on 
to  the  mound.  He  felt  that  all  eyes  were  upon  him — that  all 
were  waiting  expectantly  for  him  to  speak.  He  raised  his 
eyes,  and  looked  round. 

His  gaze  fell  on  a  pair  of  tear-stained  blue  eyes  on  the  other 
side  of  the  grave.  There  was  a  look  in  them  almost  of  fear 
— an  anxious  uncertainty  such  as  he  had  never  before  seen 
on  her  face.  But  no  sooner  had  her  eyes  met  his  than  her 
expression  changed,  and  the  strange  look  vanished. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  Snebiorg  might  be  at 
the  funeral ;  he  had  not  noticed  her  till  now.  She  had  been 
among  those  who  joined  the  party  at  the  church.  It  was 
a  shock  to  him  to  see  her  now,  so  overcome  with  grief,  and 
with  that  look  of  doubt  and  fear  upon  her  face — it  struck 
him  to  the  heart. 

And  here  he  stood,  on  a  mound  by  the  graveside,  with 
all  eyes  upon  him.  All  were  waiting  to  hear  what  he  would 
say.  Speak  now  he  must.  He  pulled  himself  together,  but 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  293 

his  heart  trembled  at  the  thought  of  what  he  must  say.  She 
was  standing  there.  Well,  she  would  forgive  him,  when  she 
heard  it  all — heard  the  confession  and  the  promise  from  his 
own  mouth. 

He  looked  round  hesitatingly.  His  foster-father  was  look- 
ing at  him  with  a  strange  expression — a  look  that  made  him 
lower  his  eyes. 

Ormarr  had  seen  that  0rlygur  was  about  to  speak.  He 
did  not  know  what  was  in  the  boy's  mind,  but  something 
told  him  that  what  he  was  about  to  say  must  not  be  said. 
He  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  young  man's  face  with  all  his  inner 
power  concentrated  in  his  eyes,  trying  to  compel  his  attention. 
0rlygur  was  looking  at  Snebiorg;  Ormarr  saw  him  hesitate. 
This  seemed  further  proof  that  there  was  something  which 
must  be  averted.  At  last  Ormarr  caught  his  eye,  and  0rlygur 
bowed  his  head. 

Then  Ormarr  turned  and  left  the  grave.  It  was  a  sign 
for  the  gathering  to  disperse. 

But  the  thought  which  had  checked  0rlygur  when  he  met 
his  foster-father's  gaze  was  the  remembrance  of  his  having 
been  found  sleeping  that  morning  at  his  vigil  by  the  dead. 
With  that  in  his  mind,  and  with  that  look  fixed  on  his  face, 
he  could  not  say  what  he  had  planned.  It  was  impossible. 

He  stood  staring  down  into  the  grave. 

Those  present  thought  only  that  the  boy  was  too  deeply 
moved  to  say  the  words  of  affectionate  farewell  he  would  have 
uttered.  And  all,  even  the  men  who  had  come  up  to  fill  in 
the  grave,  moved  away  and  left  him  to  himself. 

He  seemed  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

"Too  late,"  he  thought.  "And  now — what  am  I  to  do? 
Is  all  to  go  on  as  before  ?  That  cannot  be — I  at  least  am  no 
longer  the  same.  .  .  . " 

And  with  a  sigh  he  thought  of  how  he  had  changed  not  for 
the  better,  but  for  the  worse.  He  was  a  coward. 

And,  looking  down  into  the  grave,  he  spoke  aloud : 

' '  I  am  growing  less  and  less  worthy  to  be  called  your  son. ' ' 

And  to  himself  he  continued: 

"Why  do  you  not  help  me?    Why  do  you  not  stand  by  me 


294  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

when  you  see  me  so  weak?  Or  is  it  your  will  that  I  should 
not  be  aided  in  this?" 

Suddenly  he  remembered  how  his  father  on  his  death-bed 
had  blessed  his  union  with  Snebiorg,  and  a  wave  of  joy  flowed 
through  his  heart. 

"Father — father!"  he  cried,  with  tears  in  his  voice.  "Is 
that  your  will?  But  what  of  my  promise?  ..." 

His  joy  turned  to  grief  at  the  thought.  And  so,  at  issue 
with  himself,  he  stood  looking  down  into  the  grave. 

The  priest  came  up. 

"What  does  he  want  now,  I  wonder?"  thought  0rlygur, 
watching  the  approaching  figure  with  indifferent  eyes.  The 
whole  air  and  bearing  of  this  well-fed,  self-satisfied  priest 
were  intolerable  to  him.  It  was  worst  of  all  when  he  spoke, 
with  dead  words  and  traditional  phrases  that  meant  nothing. 

The  priest  came  up  to  him,  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"My  young  friend,"  he  began — he  was  fifteen  years  older 
than  0rlygur  himself — ' '  I  can  well  understand  how  you  must 
feel  the  loss  of  such  a  father — a  man  of  rare  virtue  in  this 
wicked  world.  Yet  it  should  be  a  consolation  to  you  to  know 
that  he  died  at  peace  with  God." 

0>rlygur  looked  at  him,  thinking  still.  Here  was  this  man 
pouring  out  a  stream  of  words  over  him.  It  was  horrible 
to  hear.  "God"  in  his  mouth  sounded  worse  than  devil. 

"We  should  all  remember,"  the  priest  went  on,  "that  how- 
ever much  we  may  grieve  at  losing  the  dear  departed,  there 
is  comfort  in  the  thought  that  they  are  beyond  the  power  of 
evil — that  death  is  but  the  gateway  to  the  Kingdom  of  Glory. 
And  to  these  two  especially,  death  must  have  come  as  a  blessed 
deliverance." 

0rlygur  looked  at  him  without  speaking.  "He  thinks  he 
is  much  wiser  than  I,"  was  his  thought. 

"The  burial  of  the  dead,"  went  on  the  priest,  "should 
really  be  an  occasion  for  rejoicing.  In  any  case,  the  dominant 
feeling  in  the  hearts  of  the  bereaved  should  be  one  of  joy  at 
the  thought  that  those  who  have  left  us  have  passed  to  their 
true  home.  And  be  sure  that  God  looks  with  more  approval 
on  such  a  thought  than  on  any  outburst  of  uncontrolled  grief, 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  295 

which  is  really  nothing  but  selfish  sorrow  for  the  loss  we  have 
sustained  through  His  will,  and  rebellion  against  His  decrees. 
All  is  according  to  the  will  of  God,  and  we  should  cheerfully 
and  gladly  bow  to  His  divine  pleasure." 

0rlygur  let  the  priest  run  on.  "He  is  a  fool,"  he  thought. 
"He  means  well,  no  doubt,  but  is  none  the  less  a  fool.  This 
is  one  of  his  stock  prescriptions  for  cases  where  some  formal 
consolation  has  to  be  delivered.  He  is  a  sort  of  spiritual 
quack.  When  a  man  loses  his  father,  he  pours  out  a  dose 
from  a  bottle — a  big  bottle,  but  containing  only  a  very 
ordinary  mixture.  As  a  student  of  the  human  heart,  he  is 
ignorant  to  a  degree.  He  cannot  imagine  that  a  mourner 
standing  by  a  grave  should  have  any  other  feeling  than  that 
of  loss.  He  sees  it  merely  as  an  ordinary  case,  calling  for  the 
usual  nostrums.  And  he  talks  of  a  wounded  heart  as  if  it 
were  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  What  does  he  know  of  the 
range  of  feeling  in  a  human  heart  ? ' ' 

The  priest  went  on  in  the  same  tone  as  before.  0rlygur 
said  nothing. 

"He  wants  me  to  say  something,"  thought  0rlygur.  "But 
what  am  I  to  say?  Tell  him  it  is  a  fine  day?  I  wonder  if 
he  would  go  away  if  I  did?  I  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  him 
somehow;  he  tires  me.  I  would  rather  climb  a  mountain 
than  listen  to  more  of  this.  Look  at  Borgarf  jail  there,  lofty 
and  steep.  I  would  sooner  climb  it  to  the  top  than  listen 
to  this  priest  for  half  a  day." 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  the  man,  with  a  smile,  and  said: 

"Look  here,  I've  thought  of  something.  Some  day,  when 
I  have  time,  I  want  to  climb  up  to  the  top  of  Borgarfjall 
there  and  build  a  bit  of  a  monument  on  the  top.  It's  a  fine- 
looking  mountain,  but  I  don't  like  the  outline  of  the  top. 
Ought  to  have  something  there — don't  you  think?" 

The  priest  stared  at  him,  dumb  with  astonishment. 

"I  hardly  think  any  but  a  bird  could  get  up  there,"  he 
said  hesitatingly. 

"Well,  it's  certainly  no  place  for  silly  sheep,"  retorted 
0rlygur,  with  a  laugh.  "Good-day  to  you." 

And  he  turned  and  walked  away. 


296  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

The  priest  stood  looking  after  him  in  perplexity. 

"Now,  was  that  intentional  rudeness,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"or  has  he  lost  his  senses?" 

It  was  some  minutes  before  he  could  sufficiently  regain  his 
priestly  dignity  and  composure  to  leave  the  churchyard. 

The  men  came  to  fill  in  the  grave,  and  the  mourners  flocked 
round  to  lay  their  wreaths  on  the  mound  that  covered  the 
remains  of  Guest  the  One-eyed  and  the  Danish  Lady. 

Among  them  were  Ormarr  and  his  wife  Runa.  Snebiorg 
and  her  mother  were  also  there,  but  there  was  no  sign  of 
0rlygur  to  be  seen.  He  had  met  the  doctor,  a  man  whom 
he  liked,  and  was  walking  with  him  a  little  distance  off. 

Ormarr  and  Runa  went  up  to  the  widow  from  Bolli  and 
her  daughter,  and  greeted  them  kindly,  thanking  them  for 
their  attendance.  They  talked  for  a  little  of  indifferent 
matters,  and  then  Ormarr  said  suddenly  to  the  widow: 

"I  should  like  to  have  a  word  with  you  alone." 

Snebiorg  blushed,  and  remained  shyly  standing  beside 
Runa,  while  Ormarr  and  her  mother  went  off  a  little  way. 
The  widow's  face  revealed  nothing  of  her  feelings,  but  in 
her  heart  she  was  keenly  aware  that  what  was  coming  con- 
cerned her  daughter's  happiness  and  her  own  peace  of  mind. 

"0rlygur  seems  strange  today,"  she  thought  to  herself. 
"I  hope  nothing  is  wrong."  And  she  strove  to  repress  a 
sigh. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing  of  the  others,  Ormarr 
spoke. 

"I  do  not  know  if  you  are  aware  of  it,"  he  said,  "but 
0rlygur  and  Bagga  love  each  other.  I  have  only  known  it 
myself  a  few  days. ' ' 

The  widow  nodded,  and  Ormarr  went  on : 

"I  only  wished  to  tell  you  that  my  wife  and  I  heartily 
approve  of  their  marrying." 

The  widow 's  face  brightened ;  the  wrinkles  seemed  smoothed 
away.  Unable  to  speak,  she  offered  Ormarr  a  trembling  hand. 
Ormarr  grasped  it  cordially,  and  then,  putting  his  arm 
through  hers,  they  walked  up  and  down  together. 

"I  may  be  frank  with  you,"  Ormarr  went  on.    "We  have 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  297 

known  each  other  for  a  long  time  now,  and  I  am  sure  you 
will  not  be  hasty.  First  of  all,  I  must  tell  you  that  Runa 
and  I  were  opposed  to  the  idea  to  begin  with.  We  should 
never  have  attempted  to  stand  in  the  way  of  his  own  wishes, 
but  we  hoped  he  would  give  up  his  intention  of  marrying 
Snebiorg.  But  my  brother,  whom  we  have  buried  today, 
gave  his  blessing  to  the  union,  and  from  that  moment  I  felt 
that  my  own  reasons  for  opposing  it  had  only  been  poor  and 
of  minor  importance.  And  now  that  I  have  told  you  this, 
I  can  come  to  what  I  chiefly  wanted  to  say.  Something  has 
happened  to  0rlygur;  what  it  is  I  do  not  know,  for  he  has 
not  confided  in  me  or  in  any  one  else.  He  is  hardly  likely  to 
open  his  heart  to  any  one  on  the  subject,  I  think.  But  I 
have  an  idea  as  to  what  is  passing  in  his  mind,  and  I  am 
anxious  about  him.  Even  if  he  should  appear  to  have 
changed  his  mind  with  regard  to  Bagga,  I  want  you  to  do 
your  utmost  to  encourage  her  and  keep  her  faithful  to  him, 
for  I  know  that  in  his  heart  he  loves  her,  and  will  always 
do  so.  But  there  is  something  on  his  mind  at  present;  he 
is  in  doubt  about  something ;  more,  I  cannot  say.  You  know 
he  comes  of  an  impulsive  race,  and  if  he  should  now,  while 
he  is  young,  lose  control  of  his  feelings  and  cease  to  take 
a  healthy  interest  in  life,  then  the  family  will  die  out.  It 
would  be  a  pity.  I  know  that  you  have  suffered,  and  more 
than  most.  I  also  have  known  suffering,  and  I  should  be 
proud  if  I  could  say  I  had  borne  my  trials  as  well  as  you 
have  yours.  If,  therefore,  your  daughter  inherits  her 
mother's  courage  and  strength,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
the  race.  As  yet  I  am  not  quite  clear  what  we  ought  to  do. 
But  I  wished  to  let  you  know  my  feelings,  so  that  I  might 
have  you  on  my  side.  The  interests  of — our  children,  I  had 
nearly  said — are  at  stake.  I  always  regard  0rlygur  as  my 
own  son.  And  it  will  be  a  hard  struggle,  for  neither  of  them, 
certainly  not  0rlygur,  must  ever  realize  that  we  are  taking 
any  part." 

The  widow  was  calmer  now.  She  looked  earnestly  at  Or- 
marr's  face,  as  if  seeking  to  read  his  mind.  Then  she  offered 
her  hand.  It  was  not  trembling  now. 


298  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"You  can  trust  me,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  know  what  it 
is  that  troubles  0rlygur,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  know.  It  is 
enough  for  me  if  he  continues  to  feel  as  he  does  for  Bagga. 
But  if  he  should  desert  her,  it  would  kill  her.  And  if  he 
kills  my  daughter,  then,  as  surely  as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven, 
I  will  kill  him!" 

Ormarr  started  violently.  "Woman!"  he  cried,  "God 
forgive  you!" 

"I  would  not  have  said  it — it  slipped  out,"  she  went  on 
apologetically.  "Such  words  must  seem  strange  in  the 
mouth  of  an  old  woman.  But  I  could  not  help  it.  You 
need  have  no  fear  of  me;  I  shall  do  as  you  wish.  You 
can  trust  me  ab  long  as  I  can  feel  that  you  are  acting 
honestly.  You  are  now,  and  I  believe  you  will  continue 
so." 

Ormarr  smiled. 

"If  I  did  not  know  it  to  be  otherwise,  I  might  think 
you  were  my  sister,"  he  said.  Then,  speaking  more 
seriously,  he  continued: 

"I  should  have  preferred  that  you  did  not  come  back 
with  us  to  Borg  today.  But  there  are  a  number  of  others 
coming,  and  after  we  have  stood  here  talking  so  long  it 
would  perhaps  excite  remark  if  you  were  not  to  come. 
Anyhow,  to  prevent  any  danger  to  our  plans,  it  would  be 
best  to  keep  0rlygur  and  Bagga  from  coming  together,  at 
any  rate  by  themselves — if  it  can  be  done  quietly." 

The  widow  nodded.  j 

They  walked  back  to  the  grave,  where  Runa  and  Snebiorg 
were  waiting.  Several  others  now  approached,  and  the 
widow  and  her  daughter  were  formally  invited  to  accompany 
the  party  home  to  Borg. 

Horses  were  then  saddled,  and  they  moved  off,  most  of 
those  remaining  taking  the  road  to  Borg. 

Meantime,  0rlygur  had  left  the  doctor  and  was  riding 
on  alone.  He  was  deep  in  thought,  and  allowed  his 
horse  to  pick  its  own  way  at  its  own  pace.  All  respected 
his  reserve,  and  he  was  left  in  peace. 

The   doctor   had   joined    the    party   with    Ormarr.    The 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  299 

widow  and  her  daughter  rode  immediately  in  front,  and 
Ormarr  noted  how  the  doctor's  eyes  dwelt  on  the  girl.  It 
appeared,  from  something  the  doctor  let  fall  in  conversa- 
tion, that  he  was  again  in  need  of  a  housekeeper. 

Ormarr  was  struck  by  a  sudden  idea,  but  shook  his  head 
a  moment  after. 

"No,"  he  thought;  "it  would  be  too  dangerous." 

The  doctor  was  a  widower,  childless,  and  lived  alone  at 
the  trading  station,  keeping  only  a  girl  to  look  after  the 
house.  And  many  stories  were  current  as  to  the  doctor 
and  his  housekeepers.  Most  of  them  left  after  a  short 
time  in  the  house,  some  of  them  going  out  of  the  country 
altogether,  after  which  nothing  was  hejard  of  them.  It 
was  also  said  that  he  drank  in  secret,  and  some  believed 
him  to  be  out  of  his  mind.  In  any  case,  it  was  not  a  place 
for  a  respectable  girl. 

Ormarr  was  thinking  hard  as  he  rode  along. 

"She  ought  to  stand  the  test,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"And  who  knows — perhaps  it  might  be  the  very  thing. 
A  chance  that  might  not  come  again.  ..." 

He  found  a  pretext  for  entering  into  conversation  with 
the  doctor,  and,  slackening  his  pace  by  imperceptible 
degrees,  managed  to  fall  behind  with  him,  in  rear  of  the 
party. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  had  elicited  from  the  doctor 
the  confession  that  his  latest  housekeeper  had  indeed  left 
him. 

Ormarr  laughed.  "You've  had  quite  a  number  of  house- 
keepers these  last  few  years." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other.  "It  is  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  find  a  respectable  woman,  and  what  I  am  to  do  now, 
I  do  not  know.  Do  without,  I  suppose." 

"I  hope  it  is  not  as  bad  as  all  that,"  said  Ormarr. 
"The  work  is  not  so  very  hard,  I  take  it,  and  there  are 
generally  plenty  of  girls  willing  enough  to  take  an  easy 
post.  I  have  an  idea,  by  the  way,  that  the  widow  there 
would  like  her  daughter  to  go  out  into  the  world  a  little ;  if 
you  like,  I  could  speak  to  her  about  it." 


300  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

The  doctor  was  profuse  in  his  thanks. 

Then  they  changed  the  subject,  and,  whipping  up  their 
horses,  rejoined  the  rest. 

Later  in  the  day  Ormarr  spoke  to  the  widow. 

''The  doctor  is  in  want  of  a  housekeeper,"  he  said. 
"What  do  you  think? — would  Snebiorg  like  to  undertake 
the  work?" 

The   widow   looked    at   him   searchingly. 

"Bagga — housekeeper  at  the  doctor's?"  she  said  harshly. 
"Never!  Never  as  long  as  I  live!" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Ormarr  quietly. 

' '  You  know  well  enough  what  is  said  about  him. ' ' 

"True,"  Ormarr  returned.  "I  know  his  weakness  where 
women  are  concerned,  but  I  have  never  heard  of  his  ever 
having  gone  to  extremes.  He  is  too  soft  and  good-natured 
for  that — certainly,  he  is  no  rogue.  I  do  not  think  there  is 
anything  to  fear.  And  you  can,  of  course,  rely  on  your 
daughter  herself." 

The  widow  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  I  must  do  as  you  wish,"  she  said  at  length. 
"But  I  shall  hold  you  responsible  if  any  harm  comes  of  it." 

"I  can  understand  that  you  do  not  quite  like  the  idea. 
But  0rlygur  is  on  friendly  terms  with  the  doctor,  and  al- 
ways looks  in  there  whenever  he  goes  in  to  the  station.  And 
if  the  knowledge  that  the  woman  he  loves  is  in  the  doctor's 
house,  and  the  doctor's  own  advances,  do  not  spur  him  to 
act  on  his  own  behalf,  then  the  case  must  be  worse  than  I 
had  thought.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  risk,  really." 

The  widow  sighed.  She  did  not  quite  like  the  idea  of 
Bagga  being  made  use  of  in  this  fashion,  and  perhaps  ex- 
posed to  danger.  But  Ormarr  reassured  her. 

"With  God's  help,  all  will  go  well,"  she  said  at  last,  and 
gave  her  consent. 

Ormarr  had  no  difficulty  in  arranging  details,  and  it  was 
settled  that  Bagga  should  take  over  her  duties  in  the 
doctor's  house  next  day. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  widow  and  her  daughter  rode  home  that  evening 
in    silence.     Each    was    occupied    with    her    own 
thoughts,   and  would  not   have  found  it  easy  to 
share  them  with  the  other. 

The  horses  knew  their  way,  and,  despite  the  darkness, 
the  journey  was  accomplished  rapidly  and  without  mishap. 
The  animals  seemed  to  know  that  the  quicker  they  went, 
the  sooner  they  would  be  able  to  rest. 

Mother  and  daughter  exchanged  only  a  few  trivial  re- 
marks as  they  unsaddled  and  turned  the  horses  loose.  They 
did  not  even  trouble  to  light  up,  but  went  straight  to  bed. 

They  had  lain  in  silence  for  some  time,  when  Bagga's 
voice  came  suddenly  out  of  the  dark: 

"Mother,  why  must  I  leave  home?" 

The  widow  was  at  a  loss  for  an  answer,  and,  to  escape 
the  question,  pretended  to  be  asleep. 

Bagga  fell  to  weeping  softly.  It  seemed  all  so  senseless 
and  cruel — why  should  she  leave  home  when  she  had  no 
wish  to  go?  Who  could  say  if  these  strangers  with  whom 
she  was  to  live  would  be  kind  to  her  or  not?  It  hurt  her 
to  leave  home  at  all — but  her  mother  willed  it  so. 

Worse  than  this  was  the  thought  that  0rlygur  seemed 
changed.  There  was  something  in  his  look  and  manner 
which  told  her  she  was  not  the  same  in  his  e3res  that  she 
had  been  when  last  they  had  met — when  he  had  given  her 
the  lamb.  Her  conscience  had  been  uneasy  on  that  day  of 
the  funeral — it  was  the  funeral  of  her  good  friend,  Guest 
the  One-eyed;  and  yet  she  had  been  glad,  thinking  only 
that  she  would  be  sure  to  see  0rlygur  again.  She  had 
hoped,  too,  that  he  would  speak  to  her — perhaps  even  take 
her  hand.  But  he  had  only  given  her  a  hasty  greeting, 
and  his  handshake  had  been  disappointing.  She  had 

301 


302  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

careful  herself  to  leave  without  bidding  him  farewell;  she 
could  not  bear  to  take  his  hand  again  in  that  strange  way. 
Was  it  because  there  were  others  present  that  he  had  been 
so  strange?  Or  had  he  ceased  to  love  her?  If  he  could 
only  know  how  she  suffered,  for  all  her  brave  attempts  to 
seem  unconcerned,  then  surely  he  would  at  least  have  given 
her  one  such  look  as  that  which  had  drawn  them  together 
at  the  first.  But  perhaps  it  was  only  sorrow  at  his  bereave- 
ment that  had  made  him  look  so  unlike  himself;  perhaps 
next  time  they  met  all  would  be  well  again.  Oh,  it  was 
wrong  of  her  to  be  bitter  and  think  the  worst;  God  might 
well  punish  her  for  that.  And  she  had  sinned  in  going  to 
the  funeral  with  any  other  thought  than  that  of  mourn- 
ing the  loss  of  Guest  the  One-eyed. 

So  Bagga  argued  with  herself,  and  made  up  her  mind  at 
last  that  if  she  bore  her  trials  bravely,  then  God  might 
again  be  merciful  and  grant  her  again  the  joy  of  feeling 
that  she  and  0rlygur  were  united  in  heart. 

She  ceased  to  weep.  Her  pure  and  innocent  heart  had 
found  consolation  in  her  simple  thoughts.  All  would  surely 
be  well  again.  And  as  her  mind  dwelt  on  the  remembrance 
of  her  lover,  she  ceased  to  see  him  as  he  had  been  today, 
and  saw  only  0rlygur  as  she  had  known  him — the  picture 
she  had  treasured  in  her  heart. 

At  last  all  conscious  thought  faded  away;  she  only  saw 
him — saw  his  face,  his  figure;  the  smile  that  had  made  her 
so  happy,  and  the  look  in  his  eyes  that  she  loved.  They 
went  with  her  into  dreams,  and  daylight  found  her  with  a 
serene  and  happy  smile.  And  when  her  mother  came  to 
wake  her,  there  was  such  quiet  and  innocent  peace  in  the 
girl's  face  that  the  old  woman's  anxious  look  changed  to  a 
tearful  smile  as  she  whispered  to  herself: 

"Surely  she  can  come  to  no  harm.  The  Lord  would 
never  let  her  suffer." 

And,  dressing  quietly,  lest  she  ishould  wake  her,  the 
widow  stole  out  to  her  work. 

On  waking,  Bagga  noticed  at  once  that  her  mother  was 
already  up.  She  got  out  of  bed  herself,  and,  without  mak- 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  303 

ing  any  attempt  to  dress,  sat  down  on  the  bed  to  think. 
Today  she  was  to  leave  home.  At  first  she  half  hoped 
it  was  all  a  dream,  but  in  a  moment  she  realized  that  it  was 
the  sad  truth.  And  the  question  which  had  risen  to  her 
mind  the  night  before  came  to  her  now  again:  Why  should 
she  go  ?  Hitherto,  her  mother  had  never  said  anything  about 
her  going  away  from  home;  on  the  contrary,  she  had  always 
felt  that  her  mother  would  have  been  sorry  to  lose  her. 
And  then  to  decide  on  this  so  suddenly.  .  '.  .  There  must  be 
some  reason  for  it  all — something  they  had  not  told  her. 
She  was  to  go  as  housekeeper  to  the  doctor,  a  man  she  had 
never  liked.  From  her  first  sight  of  him  she  had  felt  an  in- 
stinctive aversion  to  him.  His  looks,  his  friendly  advances, 
repelled  her.  But  if  her  mother  thought  it  best,  that  must 
be  enough.  And  if  her  mother  did  not  wish  to  tell  her 
the  reason  for  so  thinking,  there  was  no  more  to  be 
said. 

She  would  not  ask. 

Going  out,  she  found  her  mother  had  just  finished  mak- 
ing the  coffee.  They  talked  with  some  restraint;  it  seemed 
awkward  even  to  talk  of  little  everyday  things  now.  The 
widow  was  evidently  distressed  herself,  and  Bagga  was  on 
the  verge  of  tears.  From  her  manner,  the  mother  judged 
that  Bagga  had  determined  not  to  ask  the  reason  of  her 
being  sent  away  from  home.  This  was  as  well,  since  it 
saved  her  the  necessity  of  answering  awkward  questions; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  puzzled  her  to  think  why  her 
daughter  should  have  refrained  from  asking. 

The  few  necessary  preparations  for  the  journey  were 
soon  made,  and  a  man  came  up  to  the  house  with  the  horse 
Bagga  was  to  ride. 

It  was  noticeable  that  at  parting  t"he  widow  carefully  im- 
pressed upon  her  daughter  not  to  hesitate  in  telling  her  all 
that  happened — to  let  her  know  at  once,  if  need  be. 

"It  will  be  lonely  here  when  you  have  gone,  child,"  she 
said. 

Bagga  burst  into  tears,  but  strove  bravely  to  recover  her- 
self. The  two  women  embraced,  and  the  widow  walked 


304  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

beside  the  horse  until  they  came  to  the  stream.  Here  they 
stopped,  and  bade  each  other  farewell  tenderly. 

' '  God  be  with  you, ' '  said  the  mother  earnestly.  ' '  Trust  in 
Him,  and  keep  yourself  pure  in  soul  and  body.  And,  should 
it  please  Him  to  call  me  to  Himself,  remember  that  there  is 
one  beside  myself  who  loves  you." 

Bagga  blushed  at  her  words,  and  warm  joy  filled  her 
heart.  Then,  with  a  parting  kiss,  she  touched  her  horse  and 
rode  across  the  stream. 

The  widow  stood  for  some  minutes  waving  to  her.  And 
when  Bagga  turned  to  look  once  more,  before  passing  over 
the  last  ridge  of  hills  that  would  shut  out  the  sight  of  her 
home,  her  mother  stood  there  still,  a  grey,  forsaken  figure 
on  the  autumn  landscape.  The  sight  went  to  her  heart. 


0 


CHAPTER  VII 

RLYGUR  had  left  the  churchyard  with  a  smile  on 
his  face  after  his  unfriendly  remark  to  the  priest 
about  Borgarfjall  and  silly  sheep.     But  the  smile 
soon  vanished. 

"That  was  childish  of  me,"  he  reflected.  "Whatever 
made  me  say  it,  I  wonder!  And  now  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  scramble  up  there  one  day,  and  very  likely  break 
my  neck.  No  need  to  do  it  really,  of  course.  But,  then, 
that  would  be  rather  mean  again.  I  seem  to  be  getting 
that  way  of  late." 

Suddenly  he  perceived  the  doctor  standing  before  him. 

"Two  and  two  are  four,"  said  the  latter,  with  a  gleam 
of  kindly  mischief  in  his  eyes. 

0rlygur  looked  up  at  him  uncomprehendingly. 

"Don't  be  offended,"  said  the  doctor.  "But  really,  you 
know,  any  one  could  see  that  a  man  walking  about  with  such 
a  scowl  on  his  face  was  not  sorrowing  for  the  dead.  Looks 
much  more  as  if  he  were  busy  with  some  mathematical  prob- 
lem or  other." 

0rlygur  tried  to  smile. 

"How  would  you  like  to  make  the  ascent  of  Borgarfjall?" 
he  asked  jestingly. 

The  doctor  looked  out  over  the  valley,  measuring  dis- 
tances with  his  eye. 

"Shouldn't  care  about  it,  to  tell  the  truth,"  he  answered. 
"But  if  I  had  to,  well,  I  should  provide  myself  with  a  bottle 
of  whisky,  and  empty  it.  Then,  when  the  ground  began  to 
move  a  bit,  I  should  just  wait  till  the  part  where  I  stood — or 
lay — came  uppermost,  and  the  top  of  Borgarfjall  under; 
it  would  be  easy  enough  to  just  give  a  heave  and  roll  down 
to  it.  Otherwise,  I  think  I  should  wait  till  after  death." 

305 


306  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"But  you  don't  believe  in  any  life  after  death,"  said 
0rlygur,  smiling. 

The  doctor's  manner  changed  abruptly.  "I  don't  know," 
he  said  seriously.  "Don't  know  what  I  do  believe."  Then, 
returning  to  his  former  mischievous  tone,  he  went  on: 
"Anyhow,  I  fancy  whisky  is  a  freethinker.  And  I  some- 
times feel  the  spirit  moving  me." 

0rlygur  was  smiling  no  longer.  "What  is  it  like  to  get 
drunk?"  he  asked. 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  searchingly,  then  laughed  aloud. 

"Well,  it  makes  you  somewhat  foolhardy  as  a  rule,"  he 
said.  "And  light-hearted,  light-headed,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it.  Afterwards,  it's  apt  to  be  the  other  way — heavy,  you 
know,  especially  about  the  head.  You've  a  charming  frank- 
ness, by  the  way,  young  man,  when  it  comes  to  asking  deli- 
cate questions." 

"Why  should  I  not?"  said  0rlygur  quickly.  "Would  you 
prefer  me  to  pretend  I  didn  't  know  you  drank  ? ' ' 

The  doctor  was  somewhat  taken  aback.  "No,"  he  said; 
"I  shouldn't.  Your  straightforwardness  is  one  of  your  best 
qualities.  You  don't  care  for  whisky,  I  know.  But  come 
over  one  day  and  get  drunk  on  it — it  will  probably  save 
you,  at  any  rate  for  some  time,  from  any  risk  of  going  that 
way  yourself. ' ' 

"I  didn't  feel  any  wish  to  try,"  said  0rlygur.  "It  just 
occurred  to  me,  that  was  all." 

They  walked  up  and  down  in  silence,  0rlygur  looking 
straight  before  him,  the  doctor  watching  him  covertly  the 
while. 

"Most  likely  a  woman,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "In 
trouble  of  some  sort,  that's  clear.  And — funny  thing,  now 
I  come  to  think  of  it,  we've  never  heard  anything  about  his 
being  taken  with  any  one  up  till  now.  Anyhow,  why  he 
should  be  troubled  about  anything  in  that  line,  I  can't  make 
out.  She  must  be  a  fool  who  wouldn't  have  him  and  gladly. 
Hearts  are  a  nuisance." 

He  murmured  the  last  words  half  aloud,  and  sighed. 

0rlygur  glanced  at  him.    "What  is  it?"  he  asked. 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  307 

"Eh?  Only  my  heart,  I  said.  It's  the  whisky's  done  it, 
you  know.  And  I  was  thinking  of  the  time  when  I  hadn't 
yet  given  it  the  chance  to  get  in  and  spoil  things. ' ' 

The  doctor  looked  him  fixedly  in  the  eyes.  0rlygur 
stopped,  met  his  gaze,  then  both  lowered  their  eyes  and  walked 
on.  After  a  little,  the  doctor  spoke  again,  looking  straight 
ahead  of  him. 

"You're  one  of  the  few  people  I  ever  trouble  to  think 
of,"  he  said.  "Because  I  have  an  idea  that  you've  some 
sort  of  friendly  feeling  for  me.  Heaven  only  knows  why  you 
should.  Consequently,  the  least  I  can  do  for  you  is — not 
to  warn  you,  but  just  to  point  out  to  you  the  rocks  that  upset 
my  little  voyage;  then  you  can  go  round  or  steer  headlong 
into  them,  just  as  you  please. ' ' 

He  changed  suddenly  to  a  lighter  tone.  "I'm  no  hand 
at  serious  talk.  And  you're  looking  just  now  as  if  you'd 
just  entered  Holy  orders.  I  think  I'll  go  and  find  some  one 
more  amusing  to  talk  to." 

He  offered  his  hand,  and  the  grip  he  gave  belied  his  words. 
0rlygur  understood  that  the  other  had  gone  in  order  to  leave 
him  to  himself.  And  he  was  grateful. 

For  a  while  he  walked  about  by  himself.  Then,  noticing 
that  the  others  were  saddling  up,  he  found  his  horse,  and 
rode  with  the  party,  but  in  silence,  keeping  to  himself.  He 
noticed  the  priest  among  the  party,  and  fancied  he  marked 
an  unfriendly  look  in  his  face.  But  it  did  not  trouble  him. 
On  reaching  home,  he  let  his  horse  go  loose,  and  wandered 
about  by  himself,  leaving  Ormarr  and  Runa  to  entertain 
their  guests. 

All  that  afternoon  he  wandered  restlessly  about,  either 
keeping  to  himself  or  going  from  group  to  group,  exchanging 
brief  remarks  occasionally  with  some,  answering  others  with 
a  word  or  so,  often  without  being  properly  aware  of 
what  had  been  said.  All  saw  that  he  was  troubled  and 
distrait. 

He  saw  that  Bagga  was  among  the  guests,  but  she  was 
not  alone,  and  he  made  no  attempt  to  speak  to  her.  And 
yet,  time  and  again  when  he  lost  sight  of  her  for  a  moment, 


308  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

he  could  not  rest  till  he  had  found  her  again.  It  was  a 
consolation  to  look  at  her,  to  see  that  she  was  there. 

When  the  widow  and  her  daughter  rode  away,  0rlygur 
took  care  to  be  at  hand  when  the  horses  were  saddled.  He 
hoped  Bagga  would  come  up  and  speak  to  him.  But  she 
pretended  not  to  notice  him,  though  he  was  sure  she  must 
have  seen  him. 

At  that,  his  misery  overcame  him,  and  he  went  to  bed 
without  saying  good-night  to  any  one.  But  he  could  not 
sleep.  He  heard  the  others  come  up  to  bed,  and  could  hear 
their  regular  breathing  through  the  thin  partition  between  the 
rooms.  The  idea  of  sleep  irritated  him.  "What  was  sleep? 
— a  giving  up  of  the  mind  to  nothingness.  A  thing  unworthy 
of  human  beings.  Surely  it  was  the  outcome  of  indifference, 
idleness,  an  evil  habit  that  had  grown  through  generations 
— a  kind  of  hereditary  vice. 

He  lay  long  restless,  letting  his  thoughts  come  and  go. 

Then  he  became  aware  of  a  strange  sound  somewhere  in  the 
house.  Music — somewhere  a  melody  seemed  filtering  through 
the  air,  calling  his  thoughts  back  from  their  wanderings. 

It  must  be  Ormarr  playing.  0rlygur  dressed  softly  and 
stole  out  of  the  room.  As  he  neared  the  door  of  the  room 
where  he  had  watched  the  night  before  with  the  dead,  the 
sound  grew  clearer — it  was  there  Ormarr  had  chosen  to  play. 

He  stood  still  and  listened. 

He  did  not  know  the  melody,  but  its  indescribable  softness 
and  melancholy  soothed  his  mind.  If  Ormarr  were  playing 
for  his  own  consolation,  he  was  also  comforting  another  and 
bringing  peace  to  a  troubled  heart.  0rlygur  listened,  letting 
the  music  work  upon  his  mind.  And  gradually  he  forgot 
himself  entirely;  that  which  had  been  himself  disappeared, 
and  there  was  something  else — there  was  life,  a  precious  thing. 
It  was  worth  living  for,  only  to  feel  this  enthralment  of  the 
moment;  to  realize  this  harmonious  blending  of  joy  and  sor- 
row, of  life  and  death  blending,  as  it  were,  into  a  golden  mist, 
and  melting  into  eternity. 

The  last  notes  died  away.  0rlygur  crept  back  to  his  room, 
and  slept. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN  0rlygur  awoke  next  morning  he  felt  ill  at 
ease.     The  sense  of  mental  balance  he  had  gained 
from  the  music  of  the  night  before  seemed  far 
off,  and  he  had  difficulty  in  recalling  it. 

But  at  the  same  time  the  feeling  of  utter  despair  that  he 
had  felt,  especially  after  his  vain  attempt  to  speak  at  the 
graveside,  had  left  him. 

''Strange,"  he  murmured.  "But  the  promise — it  seems 
now  as  if  it  no  longer  existed,  after  I  failed  to  utter  it  then. ' ' 

And  he  smiled  bitterly. 

' '  Was  I  really  so  weak  ? "  he  thought. 

He  dressed  and  went  out.  The  sky  was  overcast,  and  the 
landscape,  now  deprived  of  the  brightness  of  the  sun,  looked 
dead  and  gloomy,  as  if  waiting  only  for  the  white  wrappings 
of  the  snow  to  sink  into  the  long  frozen  sleep  of  winter. 

For  the  first  time,  0rlygur  felt  the  approach  of  winter  as 
something  threatening  and  to  be  feared.  And  involuntarily 
his  thoughts  turned  to  the  spring  that  lay  beyond.  His 
heart  beat  fast  as  he  pictured  to  himself  the  joy  that  comes 
with  spring — the  joy  of  seeing  green  things  spring  up  out  of 
the  earth,  the  poor  little  blossoms  of  the  rocky  hills,  the  flight 
of  white  and  many-coloured  butterflies,  the  light  nights,  and 
the  clear,  smooth  water  of  lakes  set  free  from  their  murky 
covering  of  ice.  He  longed  for  the  spring  to  come,  and 
longed  to  share  his  joy  in  it  with  another. 

His  love  for  Bagga  welled  up  in  him  like  a  spring  torrent 
triumphant  over  the  grip  of  winter,  carrying  all  before  it.  It 
was  this  feeling  which  had  been  slumbering  beneath  his 
faint-hearted  thoughts,  and  now  it  rose  and  swept  all  else 
from  his  mind. 

"Why  did  I  not  speak  to  her  yesterday?"  he  asked  himself, 
in  bitter  self-reproach.  "Why  did  I  not  go  to  her  when  she 

309 


310  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

stood  there  weeping  by  the  grave?  What  madness  was  it 
that  made  me  greet  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  stranger  ?  And 
she  saw  it — saw  I  was  changed,  and  that  was  why  she  would 
not  bid  me  farewell.  If  only  I  have  not  hurt  her  beyond 
healing !  How  can  I  ever  explain — how  can  I  tell  her  of  this 
mysterious  power  that  has  overwhelmed  me  until  now?  She 
would  not  understand  it  all — and  if  I  do  not  tell  her  all,  she 
will  see  that  I  am  keeping  something  back.  It  may  be  that 
I  have  ruined  everything — that  she  can  never  love  me  now. 
How  could  I  ever  dream  of  carrying  on  my  father's  work? 
It  was  an  impulse  sent  from  hell,  and  changeable  and  weak 
as  I  am,  I  let  it  take  possession  of  me.  I,  who  am  so  little 
able  to  control  myself  that  I  answered  with  boyish  rudeness 
when  the  priest  spoke  to  me — he  meant  well  enough,  no 
doubt.  I  can  see  myself  that  I  am  but  a  fool — how  much 
more  a  fool  should  I  appear  to  others  if  I  were  to  go  out 
attempting  to  teach  others  the  way  to  peace. ' ' 

Again  his  thoughts  turned  to  Bagga.  He  was  filled  with 
a  sudden  desire  to  go  and  see  her,  now,  at  once.  Yet  he  did 
not  move.  Something  seemed  to  hold  him  back. 

He  hated  himself  for  his  irresolution  and  want  of  firmness. 
But  there  was  something  he  felt  he  must  do  before  he  sought 
her;  what  it  was,  he  knew  not. 

His  gaze  wandered,  as  if  seeking  a  solution.  And  suddenly 
his  eyes  rested  on  Borgarf  jail. 

"That  was  it!"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  told  the  priest. 
.  .  .  But  it  was  only  in  jest.  ..." 

He  stood  thinking. 

"Perhaps  the  priest  will  remind  me  of  it  some  day.  Or 
tell  others — and  I  shall  be  looked  on  as  a  braggart.  I  could 
never  bear  it.  Bagga  might  try  to  stop  me  if  I  made  the 
attempt,  but  if  she  heard  I  had  vowed  to  do  it  and  drawn 
back  she  would  never  think  the  same  of  me  again.  It  would 
pain  her ;  she  would  feel  ashamed.  And  that  must  never  be. ' ' 

He  decided  to  act  at  once.  He  would  climb  Bargarfjall 
the  next  day.  And  the  idea  of  danger  crossed  his  mind; 
perhaps  he  would  never  see  her  again. 

But  the  mere  possibility  of  this  was  unendurable — never 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  311 

to  see  her  again.  It  was  too  dreadful  to  be  a  possibility  at 
all.  No ;  it  could  not  be  but  that  he  would  come  back  safely 
to  her  after  all. 

And  the  more  he  thought,  the  more  he  felt  certain  of 
success.  Here  at  last  was  something  real  to  grapple  with, 
something  material,  and  he  felt  more  confident  in  himself. 
No  more  fighting  in  the  dark  against  thoughts  and  fancies, 
but  a  trial  of  physical  strength  and  endurance. 

That  it  was  but  a  caricature  of  his  former  lofty  project 
never  once  occurred  to  him — he  would  hardly  have  under- 
stood it  in  that  light.  His  nature  was  one  that  craved  real 
hardships  to  encounter;  he  was  not  of  the  stuff  to  fight  with 
figments  of  the  brain. 

He  would  do  it.  He  would  start  tomorrow.  And,  mean- 
while, how  was  he  to  pass  the  rest  of  today  ? 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  the  doctor.  A  talk  with  him  would 
be  good  medicine  to  shake  off  idle  fancies.  Yes,  he  would 
ride  over  and  see  the  doctor. 

And  this  time  he  saddled  his  horse  without  a  trace  of 
hesitation,  and  rode  off  to  the  trading  station. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    doctor    was    in    unusually    good    spirits    when 
0rlygur  arrived. 
He  had  good  reason  to  be  pleased  with  himself; 
not  only  had  he  found  a  housekeeper  in  place  of  the  last, 
who  had  left  him  without  notice,  but  he  had  found  the  most 
beautiful  girl  in  the  parish  to  succeed  her. 

And  if  ever  there  was  a  man  who  knew  how  to  appreciate 
good  looks  in  his  housekeeper,  it  was  Jon  Hallsson,  the  doctor. 

0rlygur  was  unaware  of  the  direct  cause  of  his  friend's 
good  humour,  and  when  the  doctor  invited  him  to  stay  and 
sample  the  new  housekeeper's  cooking,  he  accepted  without 
ever  dreaming — and  without  asking — who  the  new  house- 
keeper might  be.  The  doctor  was  always  changing  his  folk, 
and  0rlygur  was  not  interested  in  the  subject. 

"If  you've  come  to  try  my  whisky,  why,  you  couldn't 
have  chosen  a  better  time,"  said  the  doctor  gaily.  "I'm 
just  in  the  humour  for  a  bout  today — after  dinner,  that  is." 

0rlygur  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  given  up  the  whisky  idea,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"Not  only  because  I  don't  really  care  for  it,  but  it  throws 
one  off  one's  balance  too  easily.  No;  I  have  found  something 
else." 

"  Oh  ?    And  what  may  that  be  ?  " 

* '  Mountaineering. ' ' 

The  doctor  laughed.  "I  prefer  the  whisky,"  he  said.  "It 
elevates  the  mind  without  moving  the  body,  and  the  fall  is 
thus  less  painful." 

"No  need  to  fall  at  all,"  suggested  0rlygur. 

"If  you  are  still  thinking  of  going  up  Borgarf  jail,  I  should 
say  there's  every  chance  of  it,"  returned  the  other. 

' '  I  am, ' '  said  0rlygur.    "  I  am  going  up  tomorrow,  to  build 

that  cairn." 

312 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  313 

The  doctor  looked  at  him. 

' '  Surely  you  are  not  serious  ? "  he  said. 

"Indeed,  I  am,"  answered  0rlygur.  And  with  a  smile  he 
added :  "I  want  to  get  up  and  look  about  a  little — see  some- 
thing of  the  world." 

"If  only  you  don't  find  yourself  seeing  something  of 
another  world — one  that  your  friend  the  priest  seems  to  know 
such  a  lot  about." 

In  vain  the  doctor  pointed  out  the  difficulties  and  dangers 
o'f  the  project.  0rlygur  was  accustomed  to  mountain-climb- 
ing, and  was  obstinate.  He  must  and  would  make  the  ascent. 

"Must,"  repeated  the  doctor.     "What  nonsense!" 

"It  is  simply  this— if  I  don't  do  it,  I  shall  have  made  a 
fool  of  myself  in  the  eyes  of  that  priest.  I  don't  know  how 
you  would  like  that  as  an  alternative. ' ' 

"Oh,  if  that's  the  case,  I've  nothing  more  to  say.  I'd 
rather  drink  off  a  bottle  of  sulphuric  acid  at  once  than  let  that 
fool  crow  over  me." 

"Well,  then,  that's  enough,"  said  0rlygur.  "Let's  talk 
of  something  else.  I  came  over  this  evening  because  I  wanted 
livening  up  a  little." 

"Very  nice  of  you,  I'm  sure,  to  credit  me  with  any  ability 
that  way.  Suppose  we  try  something  to  eat  for  a  start." 

They  went  into  the  dining-room  and  sat  down.  A  moment 
later  the  door  from  the  kitchen  was  opened,  and  Snebiorg 
entered  with  a  soup  tureen  on  a  tray.  At  sight  of  0rlygur 
she  stopped,  and  hesitated.  Then  she  looked  down  and 
blushed,  but  came  forward  and  set  down  the  soup  on  the  table. 
0rlygur  had  risen,  but  said  nothing.  All  the  merriment 
had  vanished  from  his  face,  leaving  him  serious  and  aston- 
ished. The  doctor  was  looking  at  the  girl,  and  did  not  per- 
ceive the  change  which  had  come  over  his  guest. 

"My  new  housekeeper,"  he  said,  still  without  looking  at 
0rlygur.  "A  beauty,  isn't  she?  And  if  my  nose  doesn't 
deceive  me,  she  knows  how  to  cook."  And  he  stroked  her 
arm. 

"How  dare  you  touch  me!"  cried  the  girl,  and,  flushing 
more  hotly  than  before,  she  left  the  room. 


314  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"Ah,  a  bit  stand-offish,  it  seems,"  said  the  doctor  com- 
placently. "But  none  the  worse  for  that."  And  he  turned 
towards  his  guest. 

He  caught  but  one  glimpse  of  0rlygur's  furious  face; 
next  moment  a  violent  blow  under  the  jaw  sent  him  headlong 
to  the  floor. 

He  rose  slowly,  staring  in  profound  astonishment,  felt 
himself  as  if  to  ascertain  what  damage  had  been  done,  and 
then  appeared  perfectly  calm  once  more. 

"Good  thing  I  was  sitting  down,"  he  said,  with  a  touch 
of  humour.  "Not  so  far  to  fall,  anyway.  Handy  with  your 
fists,  young  man,  I  must  say.  Well,  no  reason  to  let  the  soup 
get  cold.  So  you're  taken  with  her,  too — why,  so  much  the 
better,  then  we're  agreed.  And  seeing  we've  no  difference 
of  opinion  on  that  head,  I  can't  see  why  you  find  it  neces- 
sary to  knock  me  down.  I'm  not  a  fighting  man  myself — 
very  nice  to  watch,  of  course,  when  you're  not  in  it  yourself, 
but  otherwise  .  .  .  Why  couldn't  you  tell  me  how  matters 
stood  ?  Your  girl,  not  to  be  touched,  and  so  on.  Much  nicer, 
you  know,  between  friends,  than  landing  out  suddenly  like 
that.  Anyhow,  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  the — er — hint 
was  direct  enough.  Enough  for  me,  at  any  rate.  Peaceable 
character,  you  know,  and  not  as  young  as  I  used  to  be.  I'm 
not  particularly  scrupulous  as  to  rights  of  property  in  that 
sort  of  goods  generally,  but  seeing  it's  you,  and  we're  friends 
in  a  way — no  more  to  be  said.  And  since  you're  determined 
on  breaking  your  neck  tomorrow,  I  daresay  you'll  forgive 
me  for  hoping  you  may  succeed.  If  I  were  in  your  place, 
I'd  let  a  dozen  priests  think  and  say  what  they  pleased,  as 
long  as  I  kept  the  girl,  rather  than  go  ramping  off  trying  to 
cut  out  eagles  and  all  the  fowls  of  the  air  by  clambering 
up  to  places  never  meant  to  be  reached  without  wings — unless 
she  asked  you  to,  of  course.  If  she  asked  me,  I'd  do  it  ten 
times  over  and  reckon  it  cheap  at  that.  I  suppose  it's  a 
secret,  though,  or  your  respected  foster-father  would  hardly 
have  arranged  for  his  daughter-in-law  to  come  here  as  house- 
keeper. Her  mother  wouldn't  have  let  her,  I  know." 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  315 

"Snebiorg  and  I  are  engaged,"  answered  0rlygur  calmly. 
"It  is  a  secret,  that  is  true,  known  only  to  ourselves,  and 
now,  of  course,  to  you.  ..."  0rlygur  was  surprised  to  find 
himself  lying  with  such  ease.  "But  I  hope  you  will  keep 
it  to  yourself  now  you  do  know. ' ' 

"My  dear  fellow" — the  doctor  stroked  his  chin  reflectively 
— "you've  no  call  to  be  anxious — not  in  the  least.  I'm  not 
likely  to  gossip  about  a  thing  like  that.  But,  Lord,  if  you 
knew  how  sincerely  I  hope  you  may  break  your  neck  to- 
morrow. ' ' 

"I  shan't  bear  you  any  grudge  for  that,"  answered 
0rlygur,  in  the  same  light  tone.  ' '  But  I  'm  very  much  afraid 
you'll  be  disappointed.  I  never  felt  fitter  in  my  life." 

"I've  no  doubt  as  to  your  fitness,"  answered  the  doctor, 
"•after  the  practical  illustration  you  gave  me  just  now.  But 
as  to  getting  up  there — as  long  as  there's  no  sign  of  wings 
sprouting  out  from  your  shoulder-blades,  I  would  suggest 
that  you  're  a  fool  to  try  it,  all  the  same. ' ' 

0rlygur  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  well,  it's  your  own  affair." 

They  had  finished  dinner,  and  as  they  rose  from  the  table, 
0rlygur,  according  to  custom,  offered  his  hand  to  his  host. 
The  doctor  grasped  it  heartily. 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,"  he  said,  and  went  out  into  the 
kitchen,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

Snebiorg  was  in  the  kitchen;  she  had  not  appeared  in  the 
dining-room  after  the  soup. 

' '  I  want  to  ask  your  pardon, ' '  he  said  frankly.  ' '  I  promise 
you  it  shall  not  occur  again.  Until  this  moment  I  had  no 
idea  that  you  were  a  friend  of  0rlygur  a  Borg.  He  is  a 
good  friend  of  mine,  and  I  hope  you  also  will  regard  me  as 
a  friend. ' ' 

Snebiorg  looked  at  him  at  first  with  some  distrust;  she 
had  never  liked  the  man.  But  there  was  a  certain  shyness 
in  his  manner  now,  and  a  kindly  tenderness  in  his  eyes, 
altogether  different  from  his  former  attitude  towards  her. 
And  she  could  not  but  feel  he  was  sincere. 


316  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

She  made  no  answer,  but  he  noticed  the  altered  look  in 
her  face,  and,  greatly  relieved,  he  went  back  to  0rlygur  and 
led  him  to  the  sitting-room. 

"I've  been  out  to  beg  pardon,"  he  said,  offering  a  box 
of  cigars.  "She'll  be  as  safe  here  with  me  now  as  with  her 
mother.  And  if  you  think  it's  only  because  you  knocked 
me  down  just  now,  you're  wrong." 

0rlygur  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"I  know  what  you're  thinking  of,"  the  doctor  went  on. 
' '  My  promise  wouldn  't  count  for  much  when  I  Ve  been  drink- 
ing, eh?  But  there's  just  a  bit  of  my  heart  that  the  whisky 
hasn't  altogether  spoiled  as  yet." 

He  glanced  up  at  a  large  picture  of  his  dead  wife  on  the 
wall.  There  were  other  portraits  of  her  about  the  room. 
And  his  eyes  were  moist. 

0rlygur  was  moved,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Then  the  whisky  was  brought  out,  but  0rlygur  declined; 
the  doctor  poured  out  a  glass  for  himself.  They  sat  for  a 
while  in  silence,  each  busy  with  his  own  thoughts. 

0rlygur  could  not  get  over  his  astonishment  at  meeting 
Snebiorg  in  the  doctor's  house,  and  in  particular  at  the  news 
that  it  was  Ormarr  who  had  arranged  for  her  to  come.  It 
troubled  him,  also,  that  her  mother  had  been  willing  to  let 
her  come  at  all. 

Suddenly  an  idea  occurred  to  him — here,  perhaps,  was  the 
solution  of  it  all. 

"Trying  to  make  me  jealous — that  must  be  it.  And  not 
a  bad  idea.  If  I  had  any  doubt  in  my  own  mind  before,  this 
has  certainly  made  an  end." 

He  glanced  at  his  host,  wondering  whether  he,  too,  was 
in  the  plot.  The  doctor  seemed  to  perceive  that  he  was  being 
scrutinized. 

"0rlygur,"  he  said,  in  a  strangely  quiet  voice,  "I  wonder 
what  ever  made  you  care  about  me  at  all  ?  I  've  had  a  feeling 
ever  since  I've  known  you  that  you  had  a  sort  of  liking  for 
me.  But,  how  you  ever  could,  I  can't  imagine." 

0rlygur  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  then  glanced  away. 

"If  you  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "it's  not  for  any  one 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  317 

reason  in  particular,  but  several.  To  begin  with,  you're 
alway  the  same  to  rich  and  poor.  .  .  .  Indeed,  I've  heard 
that  you  often  treat  poor  people  for  nothing,  and  give  them 
medicines  into  the  bargain." 

"That's  nothing,"  said  the  doctor,  waving  his  hand 
carelessly. 

"And,  then,  you  stay  in  a  poor  place  like  this,  instead  of 
finding  somewhere  where  you  could  make  a  better  position." 

"Mere  selfishness  on  my  part,"  said  the  doctor.  "My 
wife  lived  here;  it  was  here  I  met  her — here  we  lived  for 
the  one  short  year  we  had  together.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  daresay  it 
may  seem  almost  blasphemous  for  me  to  talk  like  that,  seeing 
what  every  one  knows  about  my  life  generally.  But  it 's  true, 
all  the  same.  That 's  why  I  stay  on  here. ' ' 

0rlygur  sat  looking  straight  before  him.  "It's  just  those 
trifles — and  that  one  thing  you  call  selfishness  that  made  me 
like  you,"  he  said  softly. 

Both  were  silent.  Then  the  doctor  reached  out  for  his 
glass,  and  emptied  it.  And,  without  appearing  to  address 
0rlygur  directly,  he  went  on : 

"Sitting  here  by  myself,  I  often  think  how  queerly  fate 
weaves  her  threads.  Something's  happening  every  moment 
— things  happening  that  matter  to  some  one  or  other.  Only, 
I'm  outside  it  all;  just  sit  here  and  look  on.  Like  the  car- 
case of  a  fly  that  the  spider  Life  has  left  hung  up  in  a  corner 
of  the  web." 

He  poured  out  a  fresh  glass,  and  laughed. 

"Sit  here  drinking  whisky  arid  never  move.  Never  get 
any  farther.  I  won't  say  my  life's  been  worse  than  many 
others  in  the  way  of  troubles.  I  may  feel  so  at  times,  but 
it's  just  weakness  on  my  part.  Here  I  have  a  comfortable 
room  to  sit  in,  an  arm-chair,  and  something  to  drink.  And 
there's  many  that  are  out  in  the  cold.  Possibly  I  may  be 
as  lonely  and  unhappy  as  they.  But  at  least  I  can  live  in 
something  like  material  comfort.  I'm  not  starving,  for  in- 
stance. Altogether,  I  must  be  a  poor  sort  of  fellow  not  to 
be  more  content  than  I  am,  and  go  steady,  instead  of  sinking 
deeper  and  deeper  into  drink,  Sometimes  I've  thought  of 


318  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

committing  suicide.  But  when  I  go  over  the  pros  and  cons, 
it  seems  better  to  go  on  living.  I  don't  expect  death  to 
bring  me  anything  better.  And  I  suppose  I  'm  doing  a  certain 
amount  of  good  while  I  'm  alive.  Though,  on  the  other  hand, 
I  do  some  harm.  Heaven  knows  why — my  nature,  I 
suppose. ' ' 

He  looked  up  suddenly. 

"Getting  dark,"  he  said. 

Twilight  had  fallen;  already  it  was  hard  to  distinguish 
objects  in  the  room.  The  two  men  saw  each  other's  faces 
only  as  pale  spots  in  the  dark.  The  doctor  rose  to  light  the 
lamp. 

0rlygur  rose  also. 

' '  Don 't  trouble.  I  'm  going  home  now, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  shall 
have  to  be  up  early  tomorrow." 

The  doctor  followed  him  out  to  his  horse,  that  was  loose 
in  the  enclosure.  0rlygur  saddled  up,  and  took  his  leave; 
there  was  a  curious,  thoughtful  expression  on  his  face.  A 
moment  after,  he  dismounted  again,  and,  handing  the  reins 
to  the  doctor,  who  was  waiting  to  see  him  ride  off,  he  went 
into  the  kitchen,  where  a  light  was  burning. 

He  closed  the  door  after  him  as  he  entered,  and  looked 
into  Bagga's  eyes,  that  were  red  and  swollen  with  tears. 

"How  did  you  come  here?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Bagga  calmly.  "Mother  said 
I  was  to  come.  And  I  would  not  disobey  her. ' ' 

"I  have  told  the  doctor  we  are  engaged,"  he  said,  in  the 
same  low  tones. 

She  nodded,  as  if  agreeing  it  was  the  natural  thing  to  do. 

Then  0rlygur's  heart  was  filled  with  an  endless  joy,  and 
a  proud  yet  gentle  smile  lit  his  face.  He  opened  his  arms 
and  drew  her  to  him.  For  a  moment  they  stood  there,  held 
close  in  each  other's  arms.  Then  0rlygur  looked  into  her 
eyes  and  said: 

"I  am  going  up  to  the  top  of  Borgarfjall,  to  build  a  cairn 
there.  And  then  I  shall  come  and  fetch  you." 

She  nodded  again,  with  the  same  expression  of  quiet  under- 
standing. Then  their  lips  met  in  a  long  kiss.  0rlygur  felt 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  319 

his  head  grow  dizzy,  and  it  was  not  till  he  found  himself 
galloping  away  on  his  horse  that  he  recovered. 

"If  I  fail  tomorrow,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "I  am  a 
scoundrel.  But  I  must  build  that  cairn. ' ' 

And  after  a  while  he  murmured  half  aloud,  with  an  air 
almost  of  disappointment: 

"She  didn't  seem  in  the  least  impressed — took  it  as  if  it 
were  nothing  at  all." 


CHAPTER  X 

JON  HALLSSON  was  standing  deep  in  thought  when 
0rlygur  dashed  out  of  the  kitchen,  snatched  the  reins 
out  of  his  hands,  and  galloped  off  without  a  word  or 
look  in  farewell. 

' '  He 's  in  a  hurry  to  go  off  and  break  his  neck, ' '  he  thought, 
and  added:  "I  wonder  he  doesn't  give  up  that  mad  idea. 
With  a  girl  like  that  ..." 

Then  he  went  indoors,  hoping  that  he  might  remain  un- 
disturbed that  night. 

When  Jon  Hallsson  had  settled  down  to  drink  in  the  even- 
ing, he  did  not  like  to  be  called  out.  But  his  drinking  had 
never  interfered  with  his  work ;  some  people  even  went  so  far 
as  to  say  that  they  would  rather  have  him  slightly  drunk  than 
perfectly  sober.  Strangely  enough,  despite  his  weakness  in 
respect  of  drink  and  women,  he  had  never  lost  the  respect 
of  those  about  him.  He  was  a  clever  doctor,  and  kind  to  the 
poor;  he  talked  straight  out,  like  a  man — at  times  a  little 
too  much  so.  And  so  people  liked  him.  After  all,  it  was  no 
concern  of  theirs  how  he  lived  or  what  he  made  of  his  life. 
There  was  only  one  man  who  detested  him,  and  that  was  the 
priest.  But  the  latter  was  not  so  popular  among  his  flock 
that  he  could  venture  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings  beyond  an 
occasional  remark. 

Jon  Hallsson  was  from  another  part  of  the  country,  but 
had  held  his  present  post  for  fifteen  years.  When  he  had 
first  come  to  the  place,  he  had  been  unmarried,  and  the  dis- 
trict at  Hofsf  jordur  was  regarded  as  merely  a  stepping-stone 
to  a  better.  He  was  looked  on  by  his  colleagues  as  a  man 
who  would  certainly  rise  in  his  profession. 

Shortly  after  his  arrival,  he  had  married  a  beautiful  young 
girl,  the  daughter  of  a  farmer  in  the  neighbourhood.  She 

320 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  321 

died  in  childbirth  within  the  year,  and  the  child  immediately 
after. 

The  blow  had  crushed  him  utterly,  leaving  only  a  shadow 
of  his  former  self.  He  filled  the  house  with  pictures  of  his 
dead  wife,  and  dwelt  on  them,  clinging  to  memories  as  a 
stricken  bird  to  its  nest.  But  his  physical  cravings  would 
not  be  denied.  And  he  was  not  strong  enough  to  master 
them.  Little  by  little  he  gave  way,  and  though  at  times 
he  realized  that  he  was  sinking,  he  had  not  power  to  check 
himself.  Other  young  men  in  his  profession  rose  beyond  him, 
while  he  grew  more  and  more  hopeless  of  ever  advancing  at 
all.  He  was  like  a  pebble  in  the  river  of  life;  once  it  had 
come  to  a  stop,  the  stream  flowed  over  and  past  it,  wearing 
away  every  projecting  corner  that  could  give  a  hold,  until 
gradually  it  became  surrounded  by  other  stones,  and  the 
way  for  further  progress  was  blocked  and  it  sank  down  to 
insignificance  in  the  lowest  of  the  mass. 

Jon  Hallsson  lit  the  lamp  and  sat  down  to  drink.  He 
could  hear  Snebiorg  busy  in  the  dining-room,  and  in  a  little 
while  she  came  in  to  tell  him  that  his  tea  was  ready. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  and  did  not  move.  As  she  went  to  the 
door,  he  added:  "You  need  not  wait  to  clear  away  the 
things.  Go  to  bed  when  you  like.  Good-night." 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  in  silence.  Then,  as  was  his  way 
when  he  had  been  drinking  for  some  time,  he  began  talking 
to  himself.  It  was  as  if  the  silence  became  unendurable. 

"Nonni,"  he  said,  using  the  pet  name  by  which  his  wife 
had  always  called  him — "Nonni,  my  boy,  it's  time  for  bed. 
Getting  late,  and  the  lamp  will  want  filling  soon.  And  you 
don't  like  sitting  in  the  dark,  do  you?  And  the  oil's  down 
in  the  cellar,  and  you'd  go  headlong  to  the  bottom  if  you  tried 
them.  Much  as  you  can  do  to  stand  on  your  legs  now.  But 
there's  a  candle  ..." 

He  emptied  his  glass  and  filled  it  again. 

"My  friend,  you  drink  like  a  fish.  Drink  a  lot  too  much. 
No  earthly  need  for  that  last  glass.  Too  much  whisky's 
a  bad  thing  anyway.  And  there's  no  need  to  empty  the 
bottle  each  time.  There's  a  deal  left  now,  but  if  I'm  not 


322  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

mistaken  you'll  finish  it  before  you  turn  in  tonight.  And 
then,  my  boy,  you  will  be  drunk.  And  do  all  sorts  of  mad 
things.  But  kindly  remember — the  door  where  that  girl 
sleeps  is  not  to  be  touched.  Not  even  touch  the  handle.  No. ' ' 

He  rose  with  difficulty  and  took  down  a  large  photograph 
of  his  wife. 

"Best  to  do  it  now,"  he  said.  "While  you've  some  sense 
left.  There's  a  hammer  in  the  surgery." 

He  stumbled  out  of  the  room,  and  nailed  up  the  picture  of 
his  wife  on  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that  led  to 
Snebiorg's  room. 

"Ragna,"  he  said,  "keep  guard  over  that  door  for  me, 
will  you?  You  know  what  I  am  when  I've  had  too  much. 
Do  all  sorts  of  mad  things.  But  mustn't  go  up  there.  Not 
up  there — no.  Tou  guard  the  door,  Ragna.  Yes." 

Then  he  stumbled  back  to  his  arm-chair  and  his  glass. 

' '  There  you  are,  my  boy ;  now  you  can  carry  on  for  a  bit. 
Couldn't  get  to  sleep  now  anyhow.  Not  eleven  yet.  And 
there's  lots  of  things  to  think  of  yet." 

He  took  a  long  drink  and  laughed. 

"Fount  of  youth — serves  up  the  same  old  thoughts  as  if 
they  were  new.  Night  after  night — chewing  the  cud  of  old 
thoughts.  Nonni,  my  boy,  you  're  a  ruminating  animal.  Sad, 
isn't  it?  Well,  what  does  it  matter?  Heaps  of  people  do 
the  same.  Chew  the  cud  of  their  sorrows  and  joys,  and  their 
trifles,  and  their  love — yes,  ha  ha,  love,  of  course.  Nice  word 
for  something  else.  .  .  .  There,  now  you're  being  a  beast. 
And  if  you  are,  you  needn't  make  out  all  the  world's  the 
same.  You  knew  something  about  love  yourself,  once  .  .  . 
blubbering,  Nonni — whisky  going  to  your  eyes,  what?  Dry 
up,  do;  it  won't  make  things  any  better.  Can't  stand  one 
bottle — you're  getting  out  of  form.  Well,  well,  here's  the 
last  glass  for  tonight.  Not  too  much  soda  this  time — stiff  one 
to  make  you  sleep.  Only  think,  if  one  could  drop  off  to  sleep 
and  out  of  it  all.  Well,  well,  that'll  come  too  before  long, 
never  fear.  Nuisance  that  you  can't  take  a  light  with  you 
when  you  go.  Nasty  to  wake  up  in  the  dark  when  you're 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  323 

dead.  What  nonsense — you  don't  wake  up  when  you're  dead. 
.  .  .  Anyhow,  it's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  Nonni,  my  boy. 
Well,  off  we  go — walk  steady,  now.  Those  stairs  .  .  .  but 
we  weren  't  going  up  those  stairs.  .  .  .  And  why  not,  I  should 
like  to  know?  Fine  girl  there  waiting  .  .  .  and  the  other 
young  fool,  he'll  break  his  neck  .  .  .  finest  girl  I've  set  eyes 
on  for  many  a  long  day. ' ' 

He  staggered  from  the  room,  and  out  to  the  staircase  door, 
where  his  wife's  picture  hung. 

"What  the — good  Lord,  it's  Ragna!  I'm  sorry,  Ragna 
— first  time  you've  .  .  .  Oh,  I  remember  now.  Well,  well, 
there's  no  going  that  way.  No,  I  shouldn't  have  ...  no 
.  .  .  Good-night,  Ragna." 

He  turned  towards  his  own  room  next  to  the  surgery. 
"That's  right,  Nonni,  boy — that's  the  way.  Leave  the  girl 
alone.  Heart  ?  Never  mind  your  heart — nothing  to  do  with 
the  heart  really,  you  know.  Not  that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  . 
This  way,  boy.  That's  right." 

He  went  into  his  own  room,  and  stumbled  into  bed.  For 
a  long  time  he  lay  awake,  muttering  to  himself.  At  last, 
when  the  candle  had  burnt  down  and  the  room  was  in  dark- 
ness, he  gradually  lapsed  into  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  still  dark  next  morning  when  0rlygur  rose,  dressed, 
and  silently  stole  out  from  the  house.     He  took  with 
him  a  thirty-foot  rope  that  he  had  procured  the  day 
before,  and  some  food.     Then,  taking  the  well-known  path 
up  to  the  mountains,  he  set  off  through  the  darkness. 

His  dog'  went  with  him. 

0rlygur  was  perfectly  calm,  without  a  thought  for  the 
perilous  nature  of  his  undertaking.  He  was  thinking  that 
he  would  first  have  to  reach  the  highest  ledge,  and  get  a 
proper  view  of  the  peak,  before  he  could  see  how  to  manage 
the  rest. 

All  he  had  to  do  for  the  present  was  to  husband  his  strength 
both  physically  and  mentally,  so  as  to  have  plenty  in  reserve 
for  the  final  and  most  difficult  part.  He  was  a  good  walker ; 
if  only  he  kept  his  wind  and  did  not  strain  himself,  he  would 
be  fit  enough  after  a  short  rest  for  the  last  climb  to  the 
summit. 

He  walked  on  steadily,  and  by  daybreak  he  had  reached 
the  third  ridge.  He  told  himself  that  he  had  been  going 
quite  slowly;  a  child  could  have  walked  as  far  in  the  time. 
He  could  safely  try  a  little  faster  now,  and  get  as  far  as 
possible  in  the  cool  of  the  morning.  Without  hastening  his 
step,  he  lengthened  his  stride  a  little.  As  he  ascended,  the 
ridges  came  closer  and  closer  in  succession,  and  he  had 
reached  the  seventh  when  he  felt  the  first  rays  of  the  sun. 
For  a  moment  he  rested,  watching  the  sunrise.  Only  three 
more  ridges  now,  and  he  would  be  at  the  base  of  the  peak. 

He  glanced  at  the  village  below.  Here  and  there  he  could 
distinguish  people  afoot;  tiny  figures  they  seemed,  viewed 
from  where  he  stood.  The  valley  was  still  in  shadow,  and 
all  its  colours,  except  that  of  the  ruddy  heather,  seemed 
dull  and  vague.  Even  the  surface  of  the  water  was  grey, 
in  places  almost  leaden  in  hue. 

324 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  325 

He  waited  only  a  little  while  and  then  resumed  his  steady 
climb.  At  length  the  stone  buttress  of  the  peak  rose  directly 
before  him,  standing  up  sheer  in  places,  at  others  with  a 
slight  slope. 

He  walked  along  the  foot.  It  was  no  easy  ascent,  that 
was  clear.  The  vertical  rifts  in  the  massive  rock  offered  no 
pathway  up,  and  the  horizontal  clefts  and  ledges  were  far 
apart,  with  a  distance  of  some  ten  to  twenty  feet  between. 

After  some  time  spent  in  examining  the  face  of  the  rock 
he  was  still  as  far  as  ever  from  perceiving  any  practicable 
way.  He  came  to  a  standstill,  with  his  eyes  fixed  vacantly 
on  the  rock  before  him. 

"Anyhow,  it  has  to  be  done,"  he  muttered. 

And,  pulling  himself  together,  he  shook  off  the  feeling  of 
despair  that  was  threatening.  He  found  a  sunny  spot  where 
there  was  a  clear  trickle  of  water,  and  lay  down  in  the 
heather. 

"First  something  to  eat,  then  a  rest,  and  then  another 
look  round,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "I  can  surely  find 
a  way  up  there  somehow."  And,  taking  out  the  food  he 
had  brought  with  him,  he  began  to  eat. 

He  was  perfectly  calm.  They  would  not  be  anxious  about 
him  at  home,  even  if  he  were  not  back  till  late  at  night.  He 
had  stated  beforehand  that  he  believed  some  sheep  had  strayed 
far  up  on  to  the  topmost  plateau,  and  must  look  for  them; 
all  knew  that  it  would  be  a  lengthy  business  to  get  a  couple 
of  obstinate  sheep  down  from  the  top  of  the  mountain,  so 
they  would  not  expect  him  back  early. 

He  ate  his  food  without  haste,  and  then  lay  resting  for 
half  an  hour,  thinking  of  anything  but  the  business  in  hand. 
Then,  perceiving  that  he  was  beginning  to  feel  drowsy,  he 
sprang  up  resolutely  and  walked  briskly  round  the  face  of 
the  rock. 

"You  and  I  have  a  little  matter  to  settle  between  us,"  he 
said  gaily,  nodding  up  at  the  wall  of  stone. 

He  found  he  could  walk  round  on  three  sides ;  the  fourth, 
that  towards  the  northward,  was  too  steep,  and  the  loose 
sand  there  rendered  it  still  more  difficult  to  find  any  foot- 


326  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

hold.  To  try  there  would  mean  going  down  rather  than  up. 
The  rock  here  sloped  down  from  the  top  of  the  peak  to  about 
half-way  down  the  side ;  0rlygur  had  thought  of  coming  down 
that  way,  but  he  realized  that  in  places  the  angle  was  too 
abrupt ;  he  would  inevitably  lose  his  footing  and  go  crashing 
down.  It  was  this  which  had  led  him  to  take  a  rope,  think- 
ing it  might  be  of  some  assistance  here.  Twice  he  walked 
round  the  three  sides  of  the  rock.  But  there  was  no  cleft 
anywhere  that  went  right  to  the  top.  Already  he  felt  his 
courage  failing,  and,  fearing  to  lose  it  altogether,  he  boldly 
commenced  climbing  up  the  cleft  which  seemed  to  lead 
farthest  up. 

Before  starting,  however,  he  coiled  the  rope  round  him 
so  as  to  be  easily  got  at  if  required.  Then  he  began  scram- 
bling up  the  narrow  cleft.  It  was  a  difficult  path,  at  times 
the  cleft  seemed  to  vanish  altogether;  in  other  places  it 
widened  out  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  keep  his  footing  on 
both  sides  at  once. 

The  dog,  finding  it  could  no  longer  follow,  began  howling 
pitifully.  0rlygur  scolded  the  animal  impatiently,  but  only 
succeeded  in  making  matters  worse;  the  dog  ran  backwards 
and  forwards  along  the  base,  trying  to  find  some  way  up. 
But  all  its  efforts  were  in  vain,  and  at  last  it  returned  to  the 
bottom  of  the  cleft  up  which  0rlygur  had  started,  and  lay 
there,  nose  in  air,  and  howling  miserably,  only  desisting  now 
and  again  to  look  up  at  its  master  with  sorrowful  eyes. 

0rlygur  made  but  slow  progress  in  the  ascent.  Still,  it 
was  better  than  he  had  thought.  But  more  than  once,  after 
passing  some  particularly  awkward  spot,  he  reflected  that  he 
would  never  be  able  to  get  down  without  the  aid  of  the  rope. 

He  was  unwilling  to  think  of  what  he  would  do  if  the 
cleft  now  suddenly  came  to  an  end;  the  thought  occurred 
to  him  constantly,  but  he  thrust  it  aside,  and  went  on 
steadily.  But  he  knew  it  could  not  be  for  long. 

Where  the  cleft  was  more  than  usually  narrow,  he  set 
his  back  against  one  side,  and  hands  and  feet  against  the 
other,  carefully  hoisting  himself  up  and  making  sure  of 
his  hold  with  one  foot  and  hand  before  moving  the  other. 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  327 

Where  it  was  wider,  or  almost  disappeared,  he  clung 
tightly  to  the  side,  testing  the  rocky  points  that  jutted  out 
before  trusting  his  weight  to  them.  At  times  he  had  but 
just  time  to  get  a  grip  with  his  hands,  when  his  foothold 
gave  way.  Then,  clinging  tightly  with  his  fingers,  he  had 
to  feel  about  with  his  feet  for  a  rest  before  shifting  his  grip. 
Inch  by  inch,  by  the  exercise  of  all  his  strength  and  all  his 
will,  he  climbed  on,  until  at  last  he  reached  a  ledge  that 
allowed  him  a  much-needed  rest.  He  looked  down  at  the 
way  he  had  come,  but  the  sight  made  him  dizzy,  and  he 
hastily  averted  his  eyes.  It  seemed  incredible  that  he  should 
have  come  up  there;  from  where  he  was,  the  rock  seemed 
to  fall  away  inwards  beneath  him.  He  determined  not  to 
look  back  again ;  he  felt  that  if  he  did  so  he  would  never  reach 
the  top.  He  turned  instead  to  a  scrutiny  of  the  way  before 
him. 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  him  as  he  realized  that  the  cleft 
he  had  been  climbing  ran  but  some  ten  or  twelve  feet  more, 
making  perhaps  a  sixth  part  of  the  height. 

But  the  ledge,  he  remembered,  continued  to  the  left,  in 
a  series  of  jutting  crags,  until  it  reached  another  vertical 
cleft  running  right  to  the  top.  One  thing  was  clear:  it 
would  be  impossible  to  pass  along  the  ledge  with  the  rope 
coiled  round  his  body;  the  path  was  far  too  narrow,  and 
if  the  rope  should  catch  on  any  projecting  point  he  would 
be  thrown  off  his  balance. 

Another  thing  was  borne  in  upon  him  now — that  to  think 
overmuch  about  the  task  before  him  was  more  dangerous 
than  all  else.  Without  more  ado,  he  loosened  the  rope  and 
let  one  end  fall,  fastening  the  other  carefully  to  the  rock  on 
which  he  was  seated. 

Where  it  was  possible  to  get  along  the  ledge,  it  would 
surely  be  possible  to  come  back  the  same  way,  he  thought. 
It  was  only  in  the  actual  descent  that  the  difficulties  were 
greater.  And  if  he  came  to  any  point  that  was  absolutely 
impassable,  he  could  always  give  it  up  and  return — "Per- 
haps," he  added,  with  emphasis. 

Little  by  little  he  made  his  way  along  the  ledge,  depend- 


328  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

ing  at  times  upon  the  grip  of  his  hands  alone,  with  his  body 
entirely  unsupported.  First  a  firm  grip  with  the  one  hand 
and  then  a  careful  search  with  the  other  for  a  fresh  hold. 
All  his  thoughts  were  concentrated  upon  his  hands  and 
their  hold.  When  at  length  he  had  reached  the  flat  rock 
that  he  had  been  making  for,  he  found  himself  exhausted 
for  the  moment.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  allowed  his  whole 
body  to  relax  for  a  brief  respite. 

It  gave  him  some  relief;  when  he  opened  his  eyes  again, 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  slept.  Once  more  he  recommenced 
his  perilous,  way,  creeping  carefully  and  with  every  nerve 
strained,  to  the  next  projecting  rock.  This  brought  him  to 
the  commencement  of  the  upward  cleft  he  had  in  mind. 
The  first  part  was  an  easy  slope,  and  could  be  managed 
well  enough;  higher  up,  however,  it  grew  steeper.  0rlygur 
realized  that,  even  if  he  succeeded  in  getting  up,  it  would 
be  almost  impossible  to  get  down  again.  For  a  moment 
he  considered  whether  it  would  not  be  better  after  all  to 
go  back  for  the  rope,  but  he  gave  up  the  idea  at  once.  The 
passage  along  the  ledge  was  one  he  felt  he  had  not  strength 
(now  to  repeat.  And  with  the  rope  round  his  body  it  would 
mean  almost  certain  disaster  to  attempt  it.  Losing  no  time 
in  further  reflection,  he  started  up  the  cleft. 

At  first  all  went  well.  Then  came  a  stretch  of  smooth  rock 
rising  straight  up  on  either  side.  The  slightest  false  move 
here  would  be  fatal,  and  there  were  some  ten  or  twelve  feet 
of  it  to  be  covered.  How  he  managed  it,  he  never  quite  knew, 
and  from  this  point  onwards  he  moved  unconsciously,  know- 
ing nothing  of  his  own  progress  until  he  found  himself 
lying,  exhausted  and  breathless,  at  the  summit.  His  clothes 
were  torn,  his  hands  bleeding  and  bruised,  and  there  was  a 
cut  on  one  knee.  The  keen  mountain  air  refreshed  him, 
and  he  lay  quietly  drinking  it  in  before  rising  to  his  feet. 
He  remembered  now  how  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  slipping 
at  that  last  stretch  of  smooth  rock,  and,  nerved  by  fear,  had 
made  a  superhuman  effort.  It  had  been  muscle  acting  with- 
out brain,  for  his  mind  had  been  a  blank  at  the  time.  But 
it  was  done  now.  After  that  terrible  moment,  the  last 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  329 

part  of  the  way  had  been  easier,  and  he  had  not  stopped  to 
think. 

After  resting  for  a  little,  he  went  to  the  edge  and  peered 
over.  Now  that  he  was  here,  he  felt  no  sensation  of  dizzi- 
ness as  when  lie  had  looked  down  before.  But  it  was  evi- 
dent beyond  doubt  that  it  would  be  certain  death  to  attempt 
to  descend  by  the  way  he  had  come. 

Still,  here  he  was.    And  down  he  must  get  somehow. 

He  was  terribly  thirsty,  and  looked  around  for  water. 
After  some  searching  he  found  a  tiny  spring,  clear  and 
cold  as  ice.  A  little  moss  grew  round  about  it,  in  beauti- 
fully varying  shades  of  green.  He  lay  down  and  drank, 
rested  and  drank  again,  till  his  thirst  was  quenched  and  he 
felt  himself  refreshed.  Then  he  rose. 

"And  now  for  that  monument!"  he  cried  gaily. 

He  had  only  his  bare  hands  to  work  with,  and  they  were 
bruised  and  sore,  but  there  was  no  lack  of  material  at  hand ; 
rocks  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  lay  strewn  about.  He  chose, 
first  of  all,  a  big  flat  stone  as  a  foundation,  looking  first  to 
see  that  its  position  was  such  as  to  render  the  cairn  visible 
from  the  valley  below,  and  set  to  work  building  up  carefully 
with  suitable  pieces.  After  a  couple  of  hours'  work,  the 
thing  was  done — a  compact  pile  of  stone,  tapering  from  a 
broad  base  evenly  towards  the  top.  On  this  he  placed  a 
large  flat  stone  spreading  out  like  the  brim  of  a  hat,  and 
above  it  a  smaller  one  again. 

When  the  work  was  finished,  he  patted  the  stone  with  his 
hand,  and  laughed. 

"There  you  are,"  he  said.  "Now,  see  and  stay  there  as 
long  as  you  can,  for  I  doubt  if  any  one  will  come  to  set  you 
up  again  if  you  fall." 

Then,  putting  on  his  jacket,  which  he  had  laid  aside  for 
the  work,  he  commenced  to  walk  round  the  little  platform 
which  formed  the  summit  of  the  peak.  On  three  sides  the 
rock  fell  away  sheer;  on  the  fourth  was  a  steep  slope  of 
loose  sand  mixed  with  a  soft  kind  of  rock.  Here  and  there 
were  hard  projections  of  lava  and  stone.  To  miss  one's 
foothold  there  would  mean  rolling  down,  with  the  first  stop 


330  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

some  eight  hundred  feet  below.  And,  likely  as  not,  the 
rolling  would  develop  into  a  series  of  bouncing  leaps,  break- 
ing very  bone  in  one's  body. 

0rlygur  noted  half -absently  that  it  was  no  use  trying  to 
get  down  on  this  side.  Then  he  sat  down  and  gazed  out 
over  the  valley  below.  The  land  merged  into  the  horizon 
on  all  sides  save  the  north-east,  where  the  sea  showed  a 
leaden-grey  surface,  broken  in  places  by  white-topped  break- 
ers. To  the  south  were  snow-capped  hills,  that  seemed 
more  like  part  of  the  sky  than  earth,  their  glittering  sur- 
face seeming  out  of  keeping  with  the  dark  hues  of  the 
lower  land.  A  bank  of  fog  came  gliding  in  from  the  sea, 
clear  of  the  bottom  of  the  valley  and  not  touching  the  moun- 
tain heights,  making  a  weird  effect.  0rlygur  found  him- 
self suddenly  looking  down  from  clear  air  into  a  sea  of 
fog  two  hundred  feet  below,  that  hid  the  valley  from  view. 
He  looked  down  the  mountain-side.  It  seemed  far  less 
formidable  now  that  the  fog  obscured  the  greater  part. 
And  he  rose  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  try  the  descent  now 
while  it  was  less  dangerous. 

"How  stupid,"  he  said  to  himself  a  moment  later.  "Of 
course,  it  is  dangerous  as  ever.  Still,  I  must  try  it.  No 
use  trying  to  go  down  the  way  I  came  up;  it  would  be  no 
better  than  jumping  off  the  edge.  The  sandy  slope  on  the 
other  side  is  my  only  chance ;  I  must  try  to  get  off  it  as  soon 
as  I  can  find  a  ledge,  and  take  my  chance  of  slipping  be- 
fore I  strike  one." 

He  took  off  his  shoes  and  stockings,  and  removed  his  coat. 
At  first  he  thought  of  throwing  them  over  on  the  side  where 
he  had  come  up,  but  on  second  thoughts  he  refrained.  To 
look  over  there  now  might  make  him  nervous.  He  left  his 
things  lying  where  they  were. 

"The  stones  will  be  rough,  with  bare  feet,"  he  reflected. 
"But  if  I  get  back  safely  ..." 

Carefully  he  surveyed  the  slope,  and  marked  out  his  path. 
Then,  lying  flat  down,  he  thrust  his  feet  over  the  edge. 
For  a  fraction  of  a  second  he  paused,  and  then  the  struggle 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  331 

commenced.  To  seek  for  secure  foothold  was  hopeless;  the 
only  thing  was  to  make  the  most  of  such  resistance  as  the 
the  stones  offered,  and  prevent  himself  from  going  down  too 
fast.  His  eyes  could  only  see  where  to  place  his  hand;  his 
feet  must  be  left  to  feel  their  way.  Every  movement  had 
to  be  made  swiftly,  and  yet  with  the  utmost  care,  and, 
above  all,  without  losing  coolness  and  self-control. 

The  actual  distance  to  the  first  ledge  was  not  great;  it 
was  not  more  than  five  minutes  from  starting  when  he 
glanced  to  the  side  and  found  himself  level  with  it.  But 
it  seemed  like  ages.  A  little  below  him,  and  slightly  to  one 
side,  a  point  of  lava  jutted  out.  Possibly  it  might  be  loose 
and  give  way  at  a  touch;  anyhow,  it  was  all  that  offered, 
and  there  was  no  time  to  waste.  Already  he  could  fancy 
himself  gliding  past  the  ledge,  and  then  .  .  . 

Before  he  could  recall  his  mind  from  this  dangerous 
channel,  his  body  had  done  all  that  was  needed;  he  found 
himself  grasping  what  proved  to  be  the  point  of  a  large 
rock.  Feeling  it  would  hold,  he  drew  himself  up  and 
threw  one  arm  round  it.  This  steadied  him,  and  gave  him 
a  chance  to  rest.  A  few  feet  to  one  side  was  the  ledge  and 
safety.  But  to  reach  it  across  the  few  intervening  feet  of 
loose  ground  seemed  an  impossibility.  If  he  slipped  but 
an  inch  or  two  beyond,  it  would  be  hopeless  to  try  and  work 
up  again;  he  would  go  sliding  down  with  but  little  chance 
of  stopping  himself. 

Just  then  he  heard  his  dog  barking,  but  paid  little  heed. 

No,  there  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  make  the  attempt. 
But  there  seemed  little  hope  of  success. 

The  danger  in  no  way  unnerved  him;  on  the  contrary,  the 
confronting  of  actual  difficulty  seemed  to  allure  him.  He 
would  try — and  then  .  .  . 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  offered  up  a  prayer.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  done  so  throughout  the  undertaking.  But 
the  imminent  peril  of  death  compelled  him,  and  his  lips 
stammered  out  the  old  words.  It  was  the  age-old  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  powers  above — a  tribute  to  darkness  and  the  un- 


332  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

known.  He  uttered  the  words  earnestly,  but  it  was  none 
the  less  something  of  a  formality.  He  was  prepared  to  die; 
it  was  only  to  loosen  the  last  tie  that  bound  him.  .  .  . 

Before  his  prayer  was  ended,  he  was  recalled  to  the  pres- 
ent in  startling  wise. 

"Hullo,  there  you  are!  Hung  up  nicely,  by  the  look  of 
you." 

0rlygur  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment.  Jon  Hallsson 
was  there,  on  the  ledge,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  carrying  a  bag 
in  his  hand.  The  sweat  poured  down  his  face,  which  was 
flushed  with  unwonted  exertion;  he  was  so  exhausted  that 
he  could  hardly  speak. 

"Looks  as  though  the  best  thing  I  can  do's  to  go  down 
again,  and  wait  for  you  at  the  bottom  of  your  beastly  moun- 
tain. Though  I'm  not  likely  to  be  much  use  to  you  when 
you  get  there.  Wish  you  were  safely  over  here,  don't 
you?  Well,  so  do  I,  but  how  to  get  you  there's  another 
thing." 

"You've  come  in  the  nick  of  time,"  cried  0rlygur  merrily. 
All  thought  of  death  or  danger  seemed  to  have  vanished. 
"But  how  did  you  find  your  way  up?" 

"I've  been  keeping  an  eye  on  the  place — ever  since  this 
morning,  watching  through  a  telescope.  First  time  I  spied 
something  moving  on  the  top,  I  thought  it  must  be  an 
eagle.  I  hoped  all  along  you'd  have  more  sense.  But  when 
I  saw  the  eagle  building  castles — sacrificial  altars — on  the 
topmost  heights  of  pig-headed  obstinacy,  I  took  it  that  by 
some  miracle  or  other  you'd  got  here  after  all.  So  I  packed 
up  some  tools  and  bandages  and  things,  and  came  out  to 
deal  with  a  fine  crop  of  fractures.  But  there's  neither  god 
nor  devil  would  persuade  me  to  come  crawling  out  to  where 
you  are  now." 

' '  Don 't  want  you  to,  I  'm  sure.  Does  any  one  know  you  've 
come  up  here  at  all?" 

"No  sense  in  telling  them  that  I  could  see.  At  least, 
not  till  I'd  made  sure  whether  you  were  mincemeat  or 
not." 

"Have  you  a  knife  with  you?" 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  333 

"Sir — you  insult  me.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  come  out 
here  prepared  for  operations  generally?" 

"Well,  I  wish  you \d  content  yourself  meantime  with 
amputating  an  end  of  that  rope  I  left  hanging  down  near 
where  the  dog  is.  About  twenty  feet.  Then,  if  you'll  make 
one  end  fast  where  you  are,  and  throw  me  the  other,  you'll 
have  me  safe  and  sound  on  the  ledge  beside  you  in  a  moment. 
Not  that  I'm  in  any  hurry  to  get  away  from  here,  really — it's 
quite  a  comfortable  place  to  rest  a  bit.  But  I've  just  dis- 
covered that  I'm  desperately  hungry,  and  there's  still  some 
food  left  in  my  bag." 

" Don't  talk  nonsense,"  retorted  the  doctor.  "Rope,  you 
say?  I  can't  get  it  without  climbing  up  that  silly  place, 
and  I'm  not  an  acrobat." 

""Well,  then,  slip  down  to  Borg  and  fetch  another." 

"Slip,  indeed — very  kind  of  you,"  snapped  the  doctor. 
And,  followed  by  a  merry  laugh  from  0rlygur,  he  turned 
back  towards  the  cleft  where  the  rope  had  been  left,  mutter- 
ing curses  on  all  foolhardy  boys  and  this  present  escapade 
in  particular. 

A  little  later  he  returned  with  the  rope  in  his  hand.  He 
seemed  even  more  angry  than  when  he  had  started. 

"Risking  my  neck  for  your  mad  pranks,"  he  grumbled. 
"I  had  to  scramble  up  the  rocks  to  cut  it  high  enough — I 
hope  you  may  hang  yourself  with  it  some  day.  Nearly  got 
hung  up  myself.  And  came  down  with  a  run,  and  gave  my- 
self a  most  abominable  bump  at  the  end  of  it." 

He  did  not  say  where  he  was  hurt,  but  when  he  fancied 
0rlygur  was  not  looking  he  rubbed  himself  tenderly  behind. 

It  was  but  a  moment's  work  to  make  the  rope  fast,  throw 
out  one  end  to  0rlygur,  and  draw  him  slowly  in  on  to  the 
ledge. 

"There!  And  now,  !where's  tfi'e  damage',?"  asked  the 
doctor  impatiently,  by  way  of  welcome. 

"No  damage  up  to  now,  thanks.  But  if  you  feel  put  out 
about  it,  I'll  let  you  take  off  one  leg  at  the  knee  for  your 
trouble." 

They  made  their  way  back  to  the  rock  where  0rlygur  had 


334  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

left  his  bag.  The  dog  had  not  moved  from  the  spot,  and  at 
sight  of  its  master  sprang  towards  him,  greeting  him  with 
delight,  and  continued  gambolling  around,  evidently  over- 
joyed at  finding  him  again. 

While  0rlygur  was  eating,  the  doctor  stared  up  at  the 
rock  and  the  rest  of  the  rope  hanging  from  the  rock  above. 
After  a  time  he  asked: 

"The  cleft  seems  to  end  there.  I  suppose  you  just  flew 
the  rest  of  the  way?" 

0rlygur  explained  how  he  had  made  his  way  round  the 
ledge.  "It's  easy  enough,"  he  declared.  "You  could  drive 
a  caravan  round." 

"But  why  on  earth  did  you  leave  the  rope  behind?" 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  would  be  more  fun  to  get  along  hang- 
ing by  my  arms,  with  the  rest  of  me  in  mid-air.  Neater, 
you  understand." 

"I  see.  You're  pleased  to  make  a  jest  of  your  own  in- 
fernal wickedness — for  it's  wicked,  nothing  less,  to  play  the 
fool  with  life  and  death  like  that." 

But  0rlygur  only  laughed  and  went  on  with  his  meal. 
The  doctor  continued  his  study  of  the  rock,  as  if  imagining 
himself  making  the  ascent,  and  shuddered.  Then,  abandon- 
ing his  ill-humoured  tone,  he'  turned  to  0rlygur  with  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  you  young  fool!"  he  said.  "Can  nothing  content 
you  but  roads  that  were  meant  for  the  eagles?" 

"I'm  going  another  road  tomorrow,"  said  0rlygur,  with  a 
laugh. 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Well,  don't  count  on  me  this  time,"  he  said.  "I'll  not 
go  dangling  at  your  heels  with  an  ambulance  train  every 
time  you've  a  fancy  to  risk  your  neck." 

"There's  not  much  risk  this  time — not  in  that  way,  at 
least.  I'm  only  going  over  to  the  station  to  carry  off  your 
housekeeper. ' ' 

"And  that's  what  I  get  for  my  pains — not  to  speak  of 
subsequent  complications,"  grunted  the  doctor.  It  was  cool 
up  there  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  a  recent  bump  made  it  un- 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  335 

comfortable  for  him  to  sit  down.  But  there  was  a  note 
of  relief  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke. 

As  soon  as  0rlygur  had  finished  eating,  they  started  on 
their  way  down.  It  was  sunshine  the  first  part  of  the  way, 
but  a  little  farther  down  they  found  themselves  enveloped 
in  a  bank  of  clammy  fog.  At  a  distance,  0rlygur's  dog 
was  magnified  to  the  size  of  a  calf,  and  well-known  rocks 
became  distorted  and  unrecognizable.  Nevertheless,  they 
found  no  difficulty  in  making  their  way  down.  The  path 
was  always  just  visible,  and  0rlygur  knew  the  track  so  well 
that  he  could  have  followed  it  blindfold.  As  they  went  on, 
the  fog  became  thicker;  the  doctor's  horse  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  They  searched  for  some  time  without  success;  they 
could  hardly  see  an  arm's  length  ahead.  The  saddle  had 
been  left  beside  the  track,  and  this  they  discovered,  but 
the  horse  was  -gone. 

"We've  always  some  horses  in  the  paddock  at  home  at 
this  time  of  year."  said  0rlygur.  "You  can  take  one  of 
ours.  I'll  find  yours  tomorrow." 

On  arriving  at  Borg,  0rlygur  at  once  caught  one  of  the 
horses  wandering  loose,  and  put  on  the  doctor's  saddle. 

"You'll  come  indoors  and  have  a  cup  of  coffee  before 
you  go  on?"  he  said  to  the  doctor. 

"Thanks,  I  won't  say  no.  And  perhaps  a  drop  of  some- 
thing stronger  wouldn't  be  amiss.  But  catch  a  couple 
more  horses  while  you're  about  it." 

"What  for?" 

The  doctor  turned  his  head  away,  and  answered  a  trifle 
sadly: 

"No  need  to  put  off.  that  business  you  were  speaking  of 
till  tomorrow,  is  there?" 

0rlygur  looked  at  him  without  a  word. 

"Besides,  you'd  be  company  for  me  on  the  way  home. 
I  don't  feel  like  wandering  about  alone  in  this  fog." 

0rlygur  set  off  at  once  after  two  more  horses,  and  tied 
up  the  three  in  readiness.  Then  the  two  men  went  indoors, 
and  0rlygur  ordered  coffee. 

After  a  while  Ormarr  came  in. 


336  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

"What  brings  you  here,  doctor?"  he  asked. 

Jon  Hallsson  made  no  reply,  but  glanced  at  0rlygur. 
Ormarr  followed  his  glance. 

"And  where  have  you  been,  0rlygur?"  he  asked,  notic- 
ing the  boy's  hands  and  clothing. 

"I'd  better  go  and  change,  I  think,"  said  0rlygur  awk- 
wardly— "I've  been  up  Borgarfjall,"  he  added.  "Up  to 
the  top."  And  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

Ormarr  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  astonishment. 

"Up  Borgarfjall!     And  you,  too,  doctor?" 

"No,"  answered  the  doctor,  with  emphasis.  "No  climb- 
ing to  the  top  of  Borgarfjall  for  me,  thank  you." 

Ormarr  turned  to  0rlygur  with  a  questioning  look. 

' '  What  were  you  doing  up  there  ? ' ' 

"I  thought  a  sort  of  monument  would  look  nice  on  top." 

"Sort  of  monument!  ..."  Ormarr  shook  his  head. 
"But  the  top — the  peak — it's  more  than  any  man  could  do 
to  get  there!" 

"Exactly,"  said  0rlygur. 

Ormarr  and  the  doctor  burst  out  laughing,  in  which 
0rlygur  joined.  Then  hurriedly  he  made  his  escape. 

When  he  had  left  the  room,  Ormarr  turned  to  the  doctor. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  he  asked. 

"My  dear  Ormarr  0rlygsson,  don't  ask  me.  I  have  to 
thank  you,  by  the  way,  for  finding  me  a  most  excellent  house- 
keeper. ' ' 

' '  Oh, ' '  answered  Ormarr,  somewhat  at  a  loss,  ' '  I  just  hap- 
pened to  know  ..." 

"You  just  happened  to  know  my  little  weakness,"  put  in 
the  doctor  angrily. 

Both  men  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  the  doctor 
burst  out  laughing. 

"Never  been  so  done  in  all  my  life,"  he  said  in  an  injured 
tone. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Ormarr.  "But  it  was  the  only 
way  I  could  see  to  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  never  mind.  Most  happy  to  reciprocate,  if  needed, 
and  all  that.  But  where  am  I  to  get  another  now?" 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  337 

Onnarr  's  face  lit  up  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  pleasure.  He 
was  about  to  speak,  when  the  doctor  interrupted  him. 

"Yes,  she  is,"  he  said  sharply.  "It's  all  settled.  I've 
played  my  little  part.  And  0rlygur's  going  off  now  to 
fetch  her." 

Ormarr  rose,  laughing,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"My  dear  doctor,  let  me  congratulate  you." 

"Me!"  snapped  the  other. 

"Yes,  you.  A  most  rapid  and  satisfactory  cure.  If  I 
can  help  you  to  find  another  housekeeper  ..." 

"Thank  you,  I  won't  trouble  you." 

The  doctor  grasped  Ormarr 's  hand  cordially.  "I'm  just 
as  pleased  with  the  result  as  you  can  be,  really,"  he  said, 
with  frank  sincerity.  "0rlygur  and  I  are  rather  friends, 
you  know.  But  he  is  a  headstrong  young  fool,  all  the  same. 
You  ought  to  go  and  look  at  that  place  where  he  went 
up." 

"Then  you  were  with  him?" 

"Not  at  the  time — no.  But  from  something  he  let  fall 
last  night,  and  seeing  something  moving  up  there  today,  I 
had  an  idea,  and  went  up  to  see  what  he  was  doing." 

"What's  all  this  about  a  monument?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  fancy  he  wanted  to  relieve  his 
feelings  in  some  way — by  doing  something  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary, you  understand." 

Ormarr  seemed  to  be  thinking  hard.     Then  he  looked  up. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  he  asked. 

"It's  only  an  idea  of  mine.  He  is  young,  and  full  of 
energy.  .  .  .  But,  of  course,  I  may  be  wrong." 

"I  fancy  you  are  right,"  said  Ormarr.  "More  so,  per- 
haps, than  you  imagine." 

There  was  a  pause.     Ormarr  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "Let  0rlygur  ride  over  now  and 
fetch  the  girl,  and  you  stay  here  for  tonight.  We  have  not 
seen  much  of  each  other  up  to  now,  but  you  have  been  a  good 
friend  to  my  son — my  foster-son,  that  is.  There  are  several 
things  we  two  old  fellows  could  find  to  talk  about.  Besides, 
you  must  be  tired." 


338  GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

The  doctor  accepted  the  invitation,  and  when  0rlygur 
was  ready  to  start,  Onnarr  went  up  to  him. 

"You  will  bring  her  home  here,  of  course.  But  I  think 
you  ought  to  go  round  by  Bolli,  and  bring  her  mother  as 
well." 

0rlygur  answered  with  a  grateful  glance  and  a  nod.  And 
no  more  was  said.  ; 

Ormarr  0rlygsson  and  Jon  Hallsson  sat  long  talking 
together.  Each  sat  by  a  window,  watching  the  little  streams 
of  moisture  that  trickled  down  the  panes. 

The  doctor  seemed  weary  and  in  low  spirits. 

"I'm  tired  of  life  myself,"  he  said.  "Have  been  for 
years  now.  And  yet  I  potter  about  trying  to  keep  others 
alive,  when  I  daresay  they're  just  as  tired  of  it  as  I  am. 
Doesn't  seem  much  sense  in  it  anyway." 

Ormarr  shook  his  head. 

"Life  is  a  precious  thing,"  he  said.  "And  often  we 
don't  realize  it  until  it  is  too  late.  Then  we  fall  to  musing 
dismally  about  it,  instead  of  using  our  experience  for  the 
good  of  others — for  those  who  are  to  come  after  us.  We 
say  to  ourselves:  I  have  suffered;  so  will  they.  Well,  why 
not?  Let  them  look  after  themselves.  But  why  have  we 
suffered?  Because  we  are  narrow-minded  and  ungrateful. 
Surely  we  have  known  some  glorious  moments;  how  can 
we  complain  of  life  after  ?  Life  is  a  round  of  ceaseless  change, 
day  and  night,  sunshine  and  rain;  we  ourselves  pass  from 
the  unknown  to  the  unknown  again  .  .  .  and  that  is  why 
a  moment  of  harmony  we  call  happiness  is  a  wondrous 
thing — a  thing  that  can  never  be  paid  for  throughout  all 
eternity. ' ' 

"You  may  be  right,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  feel  myself  an 
ungrateful  creature  at  this  moment." 

"I  have  only  felt  that  harmony  myself  at  moments  when 
I  was  able  to  forget  myself  entirely  in  my  music,"  Ormarr 
went  on.  "And  then  it  was  really  only  a  complete  forget- 
fulness  of  all  that  was  passing  around  me.  How  much 
greater  must  be  the  happiness  of  those  who  meet  in  harmony ; 


THE  YOUNG  EAGLE  339 

two  human  beings  sharing  happiness!  For  them  it  is  the 
rising  of  a  sun  that  nothing  can  darken  but  the  grave. 

The  doctor  bowed  his  head. 

"And  then?"  he  said.  "When  the  grave  had  taken  one 
of  them?" 

"Would  you  wish  you  had  never  known  the  happiness 
that  has  given  you  the  greatest  sorrow  of  your  life  ? ' ' 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "No!  Not  if  it  cost  me  all 
eternity  in  torture." 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  it  before?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor.  "But  I  see  what  you  mean. 
And  you  are  right.  It  simply  comes  to  this:  that  we 
should  be  grateful  for  life — grateful  and  happy  for  having 
been  allowed  to  live." 

Ormarr  nodded.  ' '  Happy  and  grateful — yes.  And  humble, 
too." 


CHAPTER  XII 

0RLYGUR  and  Bagga  rode  quietly  through  the  mist 
over   the   hills   from   the    station   to    Bolli.     There 
was  no  need  for  haste.     They   rode  side  by  sider 
keeping    close   together,    holding   each    other's   hands   in   a 
clasp  that  seemed  as  if  it  were  never  to  end. 

They  spoke  but  little.  Each  felt,  in  absence,  that  there 
was  so  much  to  say.  But,  on  the  surface,  they  were  yet 
as  strangers  to  each  other  in  this,  that  it  was  not  easy  to 
speak  of  little  trivial  things.  There  was  so  much  that  they 
had  not  yet  known;  and  their  minds  were  full  of  a  silent, 
happy  longing  and  anticipation. 

Yet  they  rode  there  together  in  the  mist,  as  if  it  were  but 
natural  that  they  should — as  if  they  already  belonged  to 
each  other — were  already  one  heart  and  one  soul. 

The  mist  that  wrapped  them  seemed  a  light  and  kindly 
thing. 

They  did  not  think  how  life  had  played  with  them  but 
a  few  hours  back,  like  pawns  in  a  game,  or  how  the  mist 
of  the  present  hour  was  but  a  pause  while  life  determined 
what  the  next  move  should  be.  They  rode  side  by  side, 
holding  each  other's  hand.  And  neither  felt  the  vaguest 
glimmer  of  doubt  as  to  the  other 's  will — the  other 's  love. 
Both  felt  that  nothing  in  life  could  part  them  now.  And 
the  thought  of  death  was  far  away. 

They  rode  together  over  the  hills,  two  grey  figures  in  the 
mist.  But  there  was  sunshine  in  their  souls. 


340 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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